


the office

by softirwin



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, im fucking calling this the office fic or something like i can be fucked with real titles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1721549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softirwin/pseuds/softirwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody works in an office and Ashton really, really hates Luke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally another pairing but im changing it because lashton and fifty thousand other band pairings why not
> 
> it's going to be quite a long fic i think oops i have 11k written so far and . nowhere near finished thank you
> 
> this is for kate because she encouraged me to post it and comments lovely things on all my fics and makes me smile like an idiot and is generally a wonderful person so thank you for existing kate <3
> 
> (i know i say this every time but please talk to me on tumblr because seriously i am so lonely on there (irwinsvibes))

"You're late," is how Calum greets him, disapproval lacing his tone. He's leaning against the doorframe of Ashton’s office, eyebrows raised, but he's got a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, so Ashton knows he's only in for a lecture.

"Last time I checked, I was the boss, not you," Ashton replies, hip-checking the door open and dumping his briefcase on his desk.

"Bosses have hours to be in too," Calum tells him loftily, following him inside and setting the coffee down on his desk, leaving him free to cross his arms. It's fucking _rich_ coming from the man who's been in on time twice this month (albeit twice more than everybody else) and takes great pride in being snobbish about it.

"Woke up late," Ashton breezes, which isn't exactly untrue; he just misses out the fact that he'd gone to bed around the time he was meant to be getting up.

"You're lucky _I’m_ not the boss," Calum says, uncrossing his arms to point at Ashton in a half-accusatory half-disapproving way that Ashton’s sure only Calum could manage. "I'd fire you."

"You wouldn't," Ashton says confidently, flinging himself into his comfortable black office chair. "You love me too much."

"My love for you does not, unfortunately, make you an asset to this department," Calum says gravely. Ashton scoffs and flips his laptop open, powering it up and spinning around in his chair as he waits for it to switch to his desktop.

"Shouldn't you be working?" he says pointedly after a while, raising his eyebrows at Calum (or what he thinks is Calum - he's kind of dizzy after all that spinning).

"I actually came here to tell you about your appointments today," Calum says.

"Right, not to lecture me, of course," Ashton mutters, and Calum scowls at him. "Go on, then. Enlighten me. What delights does this bountiful day hold for me?"

"Well, you have a conference call with the Head of Sales and the Head of Finance of Wellson's at eleven, and we have a meeting at two where Niall's pitching his new marketing idea, y'know, so we can tweak it before he pitches to - well, anyone else, really, and - you're not gonna like this one, and I swear I tried to get you out of it but apparently it's of the utmost importance you attend - a meeting with the other Heads of Department and Dad to discuss the company's progress this year."

"No," Ashton says immediately. "Absolutely not." Calum looks at him pleadingly.

"Ash, _please_ ," he says. "I tried, I swear, but Dad said if you don't attend you're fired."

"Calum, no," Ashton groans, letting his eyes flutter shut. "I'm not going."

"Come on," Calum wheedles. "It won't be long. And Dad's overlooked your absence from inter-department meetings so many times - you can go to one little meeting. Please. For me."

"Will _he_ be there?" Ashton asks cautiously, even though he already knows the answer. _He_ happens to be Head of Sales; of course he's going to be there.

"Ash," Calum says quietly, and Ashton opens his eyes - a big mistake, because Calum's looking at him with wide, warm, pleading brown eyes and fuck, Ashton would challenge anyone to say no to those eyes.

"Fine," he says, resignedly. "Fine, fine, fine. But if I end up quitting, your name is going to be the only two words on my letter of resignation."

"Thank you," Calum says, sounding relieved, like he'd actually thought Ashton would say no to the eyes.

"Go, before I change my mind," Ashton mutters, and Calum knows better than to think Ashton makes empty threats and hastily retreats from his office, clicking the door shut behind him.

Ashton exhales heavily and spins around once on his chair, wondering just how royally fucked he is, and decides to immerse himself in work and not think about the meeting until absolutely necessary.

-

'Until absolutely necessary' happens to be all of four hours later, when Niall bounds into his office with a grin.

"You're going to a meeting with him," he says gleefully. "In an hour." Ashton opens his mouth to correct him - fifty-seven minutes, actually - but realises Niall will only take the piss, so snaps his mouth shut again.

"Did you literally stop working to come in here and make fun of me?" he asks tiredly.

"No, you're meant to be listening to my marketing pitch," Niall says breezily. "C'mon. Cal and Jack are already out there."

"Shit," Ashton says, because he totally forgot and Calum's going to give him another half-exasperated, half-disapproving look and possibly an accompanying lecture.

"'S alright," Niall says, grin creeping back onto his face. "Probably distracted, right?"

"It's not funny," Ashton snaps, but it comes out as more of a groan. "It's a whole hour with the prick."

"Oh." Niall suddenly looks sympathetic. "Cal said it was short, so I assumed..."

"God, so young and naïve," Ashton mutters, hoisting himself out of his chair. "C'mon, let's see what you have to offer, then." He follows Niall out of the room and into the communal space in the middle of their offices that they've had to use as a meeting room since Niall and a coffee machine completely destroyed the actual meeting room.

"I _told_ you," Calum says as soon as Ashton emerges. "This morning. I said Niall was pitching at two, and you _forgot_."

"I was working," Ashton says, sitting himself down on the ridiculously plushy sofa Niall had insisted they get when they got their budget at the start of the year. Ashton and Calum had resisted pretty well until they'd hired Jack, and then they'd found themselves with a brand new sofa after the weekend.

(Niall and Jack have proven to be an almost unstoppable team since then. So far, the office has acquired a new coffee machine, fancy magazine holders, a communal Greggs card that has a mysteriously large sum of money on it and fairy lights for every office.)

"We have just under an hour 'til the boss has to go," Jack says pointedly, saving Ashton from a proper bollocking from Calum. "Might wanna start soon."

"Right," Niall says, nodding, clicking to the next slide of the PowerPoint he has projected on the screen, and flipping to the first page of the flipchart.

-

Niall's pitch turn out not to be so bad, compared to his normal pitches. Ashton often thinks that they're the most mismatched department in the company, and wonders why Calum's dad keeps them on.

(He knows why. They're good at what they do - Ashton’ss creativity mixed with Jack and Niall's enthusiasm curbed by Calum's sporadic sensibility makes for a brilliant idea, and they all pitch in to creating the final product. Most companies have huge marketing departments - hell, some hire entire marketing firms - but Ashton’s department works well as they are.)

He's missing his department fiercely right now, sitting at the far end of an elliptical meeting table waiting for Mr Hood to come in and begin the meeting. He's staring steadfastly at the table, ignoring everyone around him. He knows he’s in this room somewhere, sitting around the same table as him, and the thought is making Ashton’s skin crawl.

"Good afternoon," a clipped voice says, and Ashton murmurs a reply along with everyone else. "Well, I assume you all know why we're here today. We're going to discuss the company's progress this year, along with the progress of every individual department. Any questions?" The room is silent. "Good. Let's begin."

Ashton raises his head from the table, where he's been trying to count the grains of wood in a given area, and looks at Mr Hood, waiting for the presentation to begin and fucking end so he can get out of there. According to the clock over Mr Hood’s head, Ashton’s got another fifty-four minutes to endure.

He tunes out for the first part of the meeting, because as they go through the departments alphabetically his department isn’t called up until later. He vaguely hears Mr Hood praise Patrick Stump the Head of Finance’s ‘excellent work’ and Pete Wentz the Head of Human Resource’s ‘wonderful team spirit’, but zones out somewhere around Frank Iero, Head of IT.

“And as for Ashton – well, what can I say?” Mr Hood’s voice jerks him back to reality, and Ashton tries to hide his fright (mildly successfully, as Niall’s constant attacks of terror have accustomed him to being wary and alert). “Your department, though a small one, works wonderfully as a team. You have some real dynamic, and you have, of course, been responsible for some of our biggest successes this year.”

“Um, thank you,” Ashton mumbles, and hears a badly disguised titter across from him. Without thinking, he shifts his gaze from Mr Hood to the mystery titterer, only to be met with laughing blue eyes and quiffed blonde hair.

_Hemmings._

He feels his face heat up and tries to match the heat with his glower, snapping his eyes away as soon as Hemmings’ lips start to quirk up in a smirk. God, he fucking hates that man.

“I think, to improve, you could possibly have more contact with the Sales department. Perhaps even consider a merge,” Mr Hood continues, and from the corner of his eye Ashton can see Hemmings’ smirk widen. “After all, marketing and sales need to work together.”

“Of course,” Ashton says curtly, not missing the way Hemmings leans back in his seat, satisfied smirk still etched onto his features. Ashton hates him.

“As for you, Luke, I’d say the same,” Mr Hood says, thankfully moving on. He’s skipped Brendon Urie, Head of Production, but Brendon doesn’t look too bothered, filing his nails nonchalantly at the table. “Good work, good team dynamic, but work on your relationship with Marketing.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Hemmings says casually, like Mr Hood isn’t the CEO of a fucking multimillion company.

Ashton tries to tune out again as Mr Hood turns to how the company as a whole has performed this year, especially in comparison to its major rivals, and what it needs to improve on in the coming months, choosing instead to glare at the table with clenched teeth, counting the grains of wood again.

He gets to forty-three before he feels a sharp kick against his shin – which, okay, ow – and looks up, glare already set in place to stare down the perpetrator. Of course, it’s fucking Hemmings, sitting across from him with a shit-eating grin on his face, sliding a pink (pink, of course it’s fucking _pink_ ) post-it note across the table at him as Mr Hood continues talking about team spirit and work ethic and all that shit Ashton doesn’t give a crap about.

_Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. ;)_

Ashton stares at the scrawled words, feeling his features rearrange themselves into an expression of disgust. What’s that winky face meant to mean? Why does Hemmings think Ashton’s actually going to comply with what Mr Hood says? Why does that sentence sound a mixture of excited and suggestive?

He crumples the note in his fist and drops it on the floor and doesn't look at Hemmings for the rest of the meeting.

-

Calum, Niall and Jack are Ashton’s favourite people.

When he stomps his way back to their department, ready to fire anyone who so much as speaks to him (although he doubts they’d take it seriously – he must have fired Niall about thirty-two times so far), he finds himself in the communal area, surrounded by comfy chairs and the sofa and all the fairy lights in the entire department strung up on the wall. There’s a TV Niall must have got (stolen) from somewhere in the office, a CD player playing Green Day (because Calum clearly knows Ashton better than Ashton knows himself) and plates piled high with sprinkled doughnuts and chocolate brownies accompanied by steaming mugs of coffee on the glass coffee table that’s boxed in by all the chairs and the sofa. Calum’s curled up on the sofa, nursing a mug of coffee, and Niall and Jack are on a beanbag and a comfy chair respectively. All of them look up when Ashton walks in and stops dead in his tracks.

“Hey!” Calum’s the first to react to the half-thunderous, half-confused expression on Ashton’s face. “We thought we’d try and make you feel a little bit more comfortable after the meeting. Or like, I don’t know. Do you want to talk?”

“Do you want a back massage?” Jack asks.

“I got you your favourite doughnuts,” Niall says. “And my favourite doughnuts. And my favourite brownies.”

“You-“ Ashton’s lost for words. “You- what did you do this for?”

“I told you,” Calum says, looking perplexed. “We thought your meeting might have gone shit, or something, and anyway, you had to be with Luke for an hour, and-“

“You did this- you did it for me?” Ashton sounds more choked than he’d like to.

“Um, yeah?”

“God,” Ashton whispers, and then he’s launching himself at Calum, because fuck, he loves his friends. “It was shit. It was so, so shit. The levels of shittiness it reached were at an all time high. I have never endured such shittiness.”

“What happened, Ash?” Calum asks soothingly, and Ashton clambers into his lap because Calum’s warm and big and comfortable and he likes to feel protected and cared for when he’s angry or upset.

“Hemmings happened,” Ashton mumbles, burying his face in Calum’s shirt. Calum makes sympathetic noises and rubs Ashton’s back, and eventually Ashton pulls back with a sigh.

“Your dad said we’ve got to work with Hemmings’ department more,” he says. “He even suggested merging. And then Hemmings gave me some fucking pink post-it that said ‘Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other’ with a winky face. A winky face. A fucking winky face. Who puts winky faces on post-it notes to people they despise? Who gives people they despise post-it notes? Who owns pink post-it notes?”

“I don’t wanna work with Luke’s department,” Niall says, sounding mildly disgusted. “Have you seen that Michael guy?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Calum says, far too defensively for Ashton’s liking. Unfortunately for him, he can’t see Calum’s face properly from where he’s nestled into Calum’s shoulder, so he can’t inspect the Calum Blush Level and measure it on the scale he’s managed to perfect over the past fifteen years.

“He’s like,” Niall waves his hands around as if it will explain anything. “Weird. And like, weirdly quiet. Suspiciously quiet, weird type. A weirdo. Probably fucks pigs or something. Or uses their innards to- to be weird.”

“‘Not Niall Horan’s Type’ isn’t synonymous with pretentious dickhead, you know,” Calum says.

“Yeah, well,” Niall says darkly. “He’s got a dick; of course he’s not my type. And he dyes his hair like, every hour, and I saw him in a gust of wind the other day and I think he’s going bald. Hey, Cal, is that why you fancy him?” He tacks the last bit on in a mild tone, a tone so fucking Niall that it aches.

“What?” Calum splutters. “Niall, I’m fucking straight.”

“Okay,” Niall says agreeably, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that only Ashton’s grown accustomed to. “Can I eat the food now?”

“That Alex isn’t half bad, though,” Jack muses, watching as Niall reaches over for a sprinkled doughnut. “Looks-wise, I mean.”

“Oh my God,” Ashton groans. “My entire department is abandoning me for the dark side. You’re all Darth Vader’s minions, and I’m Han Solo.”

“I’m not,” Niall says, through a mouthful of food.

“You would if Hemmings offered you more food than I do,” Ashton says. Niall looks offended for about a third of a millisecond before he nods.

“Where the food goes, the Horan must follow,” he declares, putting his hand on his heart, and it’s so ridiculous that Ashton starts laughing, and Calum starts laughing because he can feel Ashton laughing against him and Niall starts laughing because they look stupid and Jack starts laughing because Niall chokes on his food whilst laughing.

Ashton loves them. He loves all of them individually, loves Calum for his sarcasm and erratic sensibility and thoughtfulness, loves Niall for his endless enthusiasm and hilarity, loves Jack for his wit and sharpness, but he loves them as a group. He loves the way they act together, and he doesn’t want to share. He doesn’t want to work with Hemmings. He wants fairy lights and sofas and exploding coffee machines and sprinkled doughnuts and he wants it all to himself.

He settles for snuggling further into Calum, staring fondly at Jack as he wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes and Niall struggles to regain control of his lungs.

He’s not sharing. He’s not working with another department. And most of all, he is not sharing or working with Hemmings.

-

He manages to get to work on time the next day, much to Calum’s surprise and distaste.

“You’re actually in before nine,” Calum says, sounding disgruntled. “Before me.”

“I am,” Ashton says, because he’s not had his morning coffee yet and he’s still grumpy from getting up as early as he did. “Where’s my coffee?”

“I haven’t made it yet,” Calum says. “Wasn’t expecting you in this early. I’m going to drink it now, anyway, since you’re clearly awake enough to make it in on time for once.”

“You’re fired,” Ashton says, sorting through the pile of papers in his in-tray.

“Good morning to you too,” Calum says grumpily, flipping Ashton off and wandering out of the room. Ashton sighs melodramatically (what, he’s the boss and he’s alone) and spins around in his chair to face the wall.

“Hey!” a cheery voice says, and Ashton groans, letting his eyes flutter shut and taking a deep breath before spinning back around to face the intruder. “You seen Niall?”

“Luckily, not yet,” Ashton says warily. “Why?”

“Oh,” Jack says, “he said he was going to come and talk to you about the new paint we’re buying for the communal area.”

“Jack, I- wait, what? We’re not painting the communal area, fucking hell,” Ashton says. Jack grins, seemingly unfazed.

“Okay,” he says agreeably. “I’ll go and find Niall, then.”

“Don’t you have an actual job to be doing?” Ashton calls after him, half-irritated.

“Don’t you?” Jack returns, and Ashton shouts a few curse words at his retreating figure, receiving only distant laughter in response, and turns back to his desk, flipping his laptop open and stabbing the power button with far more force than necessary.

“God, maybe it is best if you don’t come in this early,” Calum remarks, ambling back into the room. The only reason Ashton doesn’t fire him on the spot (again) for that comment is the steaming mug of coffee in Calum’s outstretched hands.

“Piss off,” Ashton mutters, but the words sound more blissful than anything else as he takes his first sip of coffee. Lovely.

“You’ve got a pretty light day,” Calum says conversationally, picking at the corner of a folder on Ashton’s desk. “Final conference call with Wellson’s guys today, and other than that, free to work on anything else.”

“Good,” Ashton says emphatically. “Have you had any word on- y’know?” He doesn’t even want to say Hemmings’ name.

“Not yet,” Calum says.

“Call one of Frank’s guys,” Ashton says. “I’m having them install a programme on my computer that’ll block any incoming emails containing the words ‘Luke’ and ‘Hemmings’.” Calum bites his lip.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” he offers, and Ashton wishes for the thousandth time that everyone in his department hated Hemmings as much as he does. Calum thinks he’s ‘a pretty cool guy’. “I mean, maybe he’s changed.”

“A leopard never changes its spots,” Ashton sniffs.

“No, but- Christ, he was barely out of his teens, Ashton. You were barely into your twenties. Maybe it’s time to let it go.” Ashton feels a sudden surge of white-hot anger; Calum has no fucking idea, does he? He doesn’t know what it’s like to be humiliated in front of the entire fucking office the way Hemmings humiliated him.

“Go and do your fucking job, Calum,” Ashton snaps, and Calum shrugs and puts his hands up in the air before swivelling and walking out. Ashton can already feel the curl of guilt weighing deep in his stomach, because Calum wasn’t having a go at Ashton; he just half-likes Hemmings, for some weird reason. But he doesn’t know Hemmings like Ashton does.

He rings down to Frank’s department and asks for the least inquisitive member of staff he has to come and install a programme that blocks emails containing certain words on his laptop, and Frank laughs for a good five minutes and won’t tell him why.

-

“We’re out of coffee,” Niall declares, bursting into Ashton’s office at two in the afternoon. “Can I go and buy more coffee?”

“Only with supervision,” Ashton says, because he doesn’t want a repeat of that time Niall brought back a crate of puppies.

“I’ll supervise!” Jack offers immediately, and from the way they’re standing next to each other, Jack leaning into Niall slightly, Niall off-centre, smiling innocently with devilish twinkles in their eyes, Ashton can tell they’re planning something.

“No terrorising old ladies,” he says. “No buying anything other than coffee. No buying copious amounts of coffee. ‘Copious amounts’ is defined as more than two jars full. Jars are defined as five hundred grams. You have half an hour.” Jack throws Niall a pleading look.

“An hour?” Niall tries.

“Forty-five minutes,” Ashton compromises.

“Deal,” Niall says, grabbing the company credit card from Ashton’s hand and tugging Jack out of the door. “Love you, Ash!”

“Yeah, when I’m giving you money or food,” Ashton mutters, shaking his head and facing his laptop again, kneading his temples.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, staring blankly at the ten-thousand word document he has to proof-read before he sends it off to Mr Hood. He’s pretty sure there won’t be any errors, since it was Calum who typed it in the first place and he’s strangely meticulous about grammar in official documents (Ashton wishes he were half as meticulous in his texts), but Calum’s fussy about these things and refuses to let Mr Hood see it unless he’s had it checked over by two other people.

“Ashton-“

“Niall and Jack went out to rob a bank, I think, and we’re out of coffee, so if it’s bad news don’t talk to me,” Ashton says, not looking up from his laptop. He only lifts his head when the silence following his words grows too long for it to be Calum who had wandered into his office, and meets a smirk, slightly messy blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Fuck.

“Robbing a bank?” Hemmings sounds mildly interested. “I thought you’d have a better hold on your department, Ashton.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ashton snaps irritably, because his no way are they on first-name basis. “What the fuck are you doing in my office?”

“Swung by to see whether you got Hood’s email,” Hemmings says nonchalantly, walking further into Ashton’s office. Ashton desperately needs air freshener. And maybe a new carpet.

“Which one?” Ashton asks, injecting as much hostility into his tone as he can.

“Which email, or which Hood?” Hemmings asks, an amused lilt to his tone. It grates.

“Either,” Ashton grits out.

“Your Calum’s dad,” Hemmings says. “And the one about team building.”

“Team building?”

“Yep.” Hemmings looks far too pleased about those two words, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. “My department and your department. Thursday morning.”

“You’re joking,” Ashton says, agape. Nobody would be as stupid as to put Hemmings’ and Ashton’s departments in team building together.

“Nope,” Hemmings grins. “Hey, guess you didn’t get it then. Wonder why that is? You got a problem with your computer? Or did you get a programme installed to block my name?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ashton shoots back sharply. “And fuck off, while you’re at it.”

“Alright,” Hemmings says amiably, holding his hands up in defeat. Ashton can see the glint in his eyes from where he’s sat, though, so it’s a useless gesture. “You might wanna find that email, though. See you Thursday!” Ashton watches him with narrowed eyes as he practically sashays his way out of the door, looking like a complete fool but probably thinking he looks seductive, making sure he actually leaves and doesn’t go and hide in Niall’s office, or something. He wouldn’t put it past Hemmings. Hell, he wouldn’t put anything past Hemmings.

If various webpages listing the legalities of euthanasia turn up in Ashton’s browsing history, he’s not to blame.

-

“You better have bought that fucking coffee,” Ashton says as soon as Niall and Jack burst into the communal area. He’s been curled up on the sofa with an empty mug watching TV on the stolen screen (speaking of which, he had received a rather bemused email this morning from a certain Patrick Stump – he needs to return that TV) ignoring all his responsibilities and duties in favour of wallowing in self-pity.

He’d got one of Frank’s guys to uninstall the programme from his computer so he could look at the email, something that had resulted in great mirth on Frank’s end.

(“We installed it like, two hours ago!” Frank had said.

“Yeah, and I’m asking you to uninstall it two hours later,” Ashton had said. “Since when is that against the law?”

“It isn’t,” Frank had said agreeably. “Alright, I’ll send someone up.”

“Thanks,” Ashton had said, and was about to put the phone down when Frank had added something else.

“Have you ever read Much Ado?”

“Um,” Ashton had said, “is there any reason I should have?”

“Oh, none at all,” Frank had said. “Just…he’s kinda like your Benedick, isn’t he?”)

As soon as bony little Mikey Way had walked out of the room, emails had started flooding in. He’d found Mr Hood’s email soon enough and clicked it, scanning the text with a growing sense of horror and anger and frustration sinking down in his stomach.

_Luke, Ashton,_

_I’m emailing to tell you about a little idea I had. As your targets for the coming term were to co-operate more and interact with one another, I thought it would be a good idea to get the two departments involved in team building. You will all be in pairs (other than Niall, who will be responsible for judging the teams and ensuring nobody cheats – Luke, honestly, if you have any qualms about bias, just spend an hour with Niall. There is absolutely no way he’ll be biased about it) as listed below, and take part in various team building activities at a centre I booked a hall in for the day – details on another email. You begin at 9 a.m. sharp on Thursday, so be there on time._

_Pairs:_   
_Michael Clifford / Calum Hood_   
_Jack Barakat / Alex Gaskarth_   
_Luke Hemmings / Ashton Irwin_

_Regards,_   
_M. Hood_

It had taken a while to sink in.

Team building.

With Hemmings.

Fuck coffee; Ashton had already started considering becoming a heroin addict by this point.

“Um,” Niall says, eyes going wide for a moment and jolting Ashton back from his unwelcome recollection, but Jack fumbles around in one of the four (four) plastic bags he’s holding and finds a slightly crushed plastic jar of coffee.

“Honestly, Niall,” Jack says, tutting. “We go out to buy one thing and it’s the thing you forget? Couldn’t you see our poor boss in Luke-Hemmings-induced pain?”

“Fuck off,” Ashton scowls, grabbing the coffee off Jack and cradling it to his chest. “I’ll set Calum on you.”

“Cal loves me too much,” Jack declares, skirting around the sofa and dumping the rest of the bags on a chair. “Really, though, Ash? Jeremy Kyle? Is it that bad?”

“Don’t knock it,” Ashton says defensively. “You don’t even have the first idea.”

“G’on, then, enlighten us,” Niall suggests, vaulting over the sofa and settling down next to Ashton, snuggling right up to him immediately. Ashton doesn’t even bother to pretend he doesn’t enjoy it.

“He came here,” Ashton mutters, staring into the depths of his empty mug. “Said there was an email. ‘Course, I didn’t see it, ‘cause I’d got Frank’s lot to install a programme that blocks anything to do with the bastard.”

“What’s the email about?” Niall asks, tracing a delicate pattern across Ashton’s forearm with his finger.

“Team building,” Ashton says.

“Team building?” Niall asks incredulously. “Like, us and them? Together? In teams? I want some of what Hood’s smoking.”

“In pairs,” Ashton corrects. Niall brightens.

“Hey, that means one of us won’t have a partner, right?” he says. “Because we have four people and Luke’s department only has three.”

“Yeah, Mr Hood said you were going to be like, the ref,” Ashton says.

“Shit,” Niall says. “That sucks, mate. I’m sorry. Has he told you who you’re with?” Ashton lets out an almost hysterical laugh, which serves as enough of an answer for Niall to wince sympathetically.

“I think I might become a crackhead,” Ashton tells him seriously.

“Aw, don’t,” Niall says, swatting at his arm. “Cal would never forgive you.”

“Neither would I,” Jack says. “Crack’s expensive shit these days, man. Gotta share that.” Ashton sighs, not even finding it in himself to smile, and rests his head on Niall’s hair, letting Niall lace their fingers together.

“Hey,” Niall says. “It’ll be alright. You want some of my biscuits?”

“Yeah,” Ashton says, because Niall’s terrible at comforting people and it’s nice of him to even try, let alone offer his food up. Ashton’s a pro at wallowing in self-pity as long as he needs, anyway. He can do something proactive later.

-

He calls a department meeting.  
-

“So, like,” Calum says. “Team building.”

“You didn’t seem too narked about it,” Ashton notes. “’S this about the weird guy?”

“He’s not ‘the weird guy’,” Calum huffs.

“Aye, right,” Niall snorts, stretching on the sofa. “It’s ‘Calum’s huge man-crush’.”

“He is not my man-crush,” Calum says stiffly.

“Oh, so you have one, then?” Niall says. “G’on, who?”

“I-“

“Bet it’s me,” Niall continues. “Ripped, I am. Bulging abs. Do abs bulge?”

“The fat you gained from eating twelve bars of chocolate today does,” Jack says, reaching out to poke at Niall’s stomach. Ashton sometimes hates how Niall can eat like a sty-full of pigs and not put on an ounce of weight. “Anyway, if Cal’s got a man-crush, it’s gonna be me. Calum’s a fashion kind of guy.”

“Your hair looks like someone peed in it,” Niall says, nodding at the stripe of blonde Jack decided to dye (“Skunk hair, Ashton. It’s a little thing called fashion”). “Let’s face it, if Cal’s gonna have a man-crush on anyone it’s gonna be Ash.”

“Excuse me?” Ashton says, because this is not where the emergency department meeting he envisioned ended up.

“Yeah,” Jack says, tilting his head to one side as if considering. “You’ve got the nicest ass in the world, Ashton.”

“I didn’t call an emergency department meeting to talk about my arse,” Ashton huffs, but he’s pretty pleased anyway.

“No, you didn’t,” Calum says, throwing steely glares at Niall and Jack. “So. Team building. Michael Clifford. Team building with Michael Clifford.”

“Aw, look, baby Calum’s just learnt to string sentences together,” Niall coos, reaching over and pinching Calum’s cheek.

“Fuck off,” Calum mutters, but he’s blushing more than scowling. Ashton makes a mental note; he’s going to use that against Calum at some point in the next year.

“We have to be there at like, eight forty-five?” Jack says. “Before nine?”

“That’s what the email implied, yeah,” Ashton says. Jack pulls a face.

“’S early,” he complains. “Even Alex’s beautiful face can’t make up for that. Oh, Lord, what if we have some activity that involves tying up hair? I don’t know how long I can face that forehead.”

“Don’t be mean,” Niall says, chucking a cushion at him.

“Don’t be mean?” Ashton asks in disbelief. “This is Hemmings’ department we’re discussing, y’know.”

“But not all of them are Luke,” Calum points out.

“They work for him,” Ashton says, because in his mind that’s enough of a reason to be scorned. Sure, he’s biased, but whatever.

“C’mon, Ash,” Calum sighs. “It’s been two years. Maybe this is what Dad’s trying to eliminate; your stupid prejudice against Luke.”

“It’s not prejudice,” Ashton says stubbornly. “Prejudice is pre-judgement. I’m judging him having met him and known him.”

“Whatever,” Calum says. “Point is, nobody ever got anywhere by holding a grudge.”

“Nobody ever got anywhere by blindly forgiving people either,” Ashton points out.

“Fascinating as this is,” Niall interrupts loudly, getting off the sofa, “me and my stomach have an appointment. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Me too,” Jack says. “My hand and I are busy tonight. See you tomorrow.”

“Think about it,” Calum says, as Niall and Jack file out of the communal area noisily. “Forgive and forget, y’know? He’s done it. Why can’t you?”

“Because it was his fault,” Ashton bites out. “He had nothing to forgive or forget.” Calum throws him a despairing, almost withering look, and shakes his head.

“I love you, Ash,” he says, “but sometimes you can be stubborn as anything.”

“Not stubborn,” Ash mutters. “Reasonable.” Calum sighs, and gets up, picking his coat up off the hook.

“See you tomorrow, Ashton,” he says quietly, following Niall and Jack out of the communal area.

Ashton curls further in on himself, ignoring the thick silence Calum’s left in his wake. He hates arguing with Calum, fucking hates it, because they’ve known each other since they were God knows how young and they’ve been through so much together. But usually Calum gets properly angry at him, lets him yell and scream and screams and yells back; he’s never been the _I’m disappointed in you_ type, which makes this all even worse.

Fuck it. If Ashton survives tomorrow, he’s going to go on a pilgrimage to Bethlehem and apologise to God for being a sceptic for so many years. He won’t survive without holy intervention.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should change the names of all my fics to 'i wrote this instead of revising and therefore im going to fail all my exams' 
> 
> but yes this is a thing now this chapter and stuff idk

Seven a.m. dawns bright and early, accompanied by the shrill shriek of Ashton’s alarm clock. Ashton groans and rolls over to turn it off before he remembers that he can’t be late today, because today he’s doing _team building_ with Hemmings’ department.

The thought makes him sit bolt upright, eyes wide, stomach churning, and he takes a moment out of his apprehension to think that maybe he should glue Hemmings’ face to the front of his alarm clock as it seems to wake him up better than the piercing sound of the alarm.

 _Team building_.

He unplugs his phone from where it’s been charging on his bedside table and types a text to the group chat.

 _**Me** _ _  
I don’t want to do this._

 _**CH** _ ****   
_None of us do_

_**JB** _   
_oh, you filthy little liar, hood._

_**CH** _ _  
I’m supporting the department! I didn’t choose this_

 _**nialler sex god whoran <3 <3 xxxx** _ **** _  
hahahah!!!! calum you totally wnt michaels dick!!!!_

Ashton frowns at his phone.

 _**Me** _ **_  
_** _Ni, when did you change your name to ‘nialler sex god whoran heart heart kiss kiss kiss kiss’ on my phone?_

 _**nialler sex god whoran <3 <3 xxxx** _ **** _  
last time u looked like u needed  cheering up_

Ashton can’t help but scoff, but he’s smiling all the same. Niall has strange ways of showing he cares, but they’re so bloody _Niall_ that they somehow work.

 _**CH** _ ****   
_Anyway, I need to start getting ready_

 _**JB** _ _  
getting pretty for Clifford_

 _**CH** _ _  
Oh ffs, Ashton, isn’t it about time you fired Jack?_

 _**Me** _ **** _  
What, again?_

 _**JB** _ _  
:):):):):) see you in an hour loverboy_

Ashton sets his phone aside and groans at nobody in particular.

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t _have_ to do this. Niall can take his place, right? Ashton can be the invigilator or whatever. Or he could just not turn up at all; he hasn’t taken any sick days this year, to be fair. He’s just late a lot.

Then again, not turning up will mean Hemmings wins, and Ashton can’t have that, can’t face knowing he’s lost to a smug bastard like Hemmings.

He is so, _so_ royally fucked.

With another loud groan, Ashton drags himself out of his warm, warm bed and into the shower, clutching his fluffiest towel to his chest like a shield.

Hemmings isn’t going to win this one.

-

When Ashton turns up at the fitness centre (an even posher version of David Lloyd, which Ashton had believed nigh on impossible) he can see Niall leaning against his car, talking animatedly to Jack with his face tilted to catch the best of the early-morning sunshine.

“Hey,” Ashton shouts, and Niall and Jack turn, matching grins spreading across their faces. “Where’s Calum?”

“Signing us in,” Niall says, as Ashton slams his car door shut and makes his way over to them. “All of Luke’s department are already here.” Ashton sighs.

“Brilliant,” he says. “Shall we?”

“After you,” Jack says, and there’s an edge to his tone that sounds far too much like a smirk for Ashton’s liking. He says nothing, however, squaring his shoulders and walking up the path to the double doors that lead to the entrance of the fitness centre.

It’s even posher than Ashton had assumed it would be, a vast expanse of marble and panelled walls and receptionists with red-lipped smiles and those weird little bandana-scarf things that air hostesses wear.

“Finally,” an exasperated voice says, and Ashton turns to find Calum leaning against a white marble pillar with black flecks and gold leafing at the top. Christ. “I’ve signed us in and Luke’s department is all already up there. We’ve got a huge room – a gym, basically, and the receptionist’s given me an envelope that was left in our name for Niall. Nobody’s allowed to look at it but Niall.”

“Sick,” Niall crows, before his face falls. “Wait, it’s not a note firing me, is it?”

“Luck doesn’t love me that much,” Calum says dryly as he hands the envelope over, and Niall flips him off, earning himself a few dirty looks from the people around them. Ashton figures he should maybe herd his department up before they cause too much trouble.

“C’mon,” he says. “Cal, d’you know where we’re going?”

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Round here.” He leads them down a convoluted route of corridors and stairs whilst Niall opens his envelope.

“It’s the schedule for today,” he says, breaking into a broad grin as he scans it. “Oh, you guys are gonna _hate_ this. Or love it, in Calum’s case.”

“Let me see,” Jack says, trying to snatch it out of Niall’s hands, but Niall pulls it away.

“My eyes only,” he reminds Jack, and Jack scowls, shoving his hands in his pockets and mooching along.

“Here!” Calum says finally, leading them to a room at the end of a secluded corridor labelled as ‘Gym X’. The name in itself sounds rather ominous.

“Here?” Ashton says doubtfully, but Calum pushes the door open and they tumble inside to bright lights and creamy linoleum floors.

Ashton looks up to find himself staring at Hemmings’ department. Michael Clifford, the ‘quiet weird one’ that Niall’s always banging on about, is dressed in a simple black shirt that shows an tattoo on his bicep that Ashton didn’t know he had. He looks tired and kind of cuddly, in a weird way. Ashton decides that if he has to choose a least-disliked member of Hemmings’ department, Michael might be the one.

Alex Gaskarth is grinning next to Michael, already gravitating towards Jack, hair in the same stupid fringe but with a bloody _pink_ streak (there’s no way to excuse that, honestly) and dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, just like Jack.

As for Hemmings himself, Ringleader of the Demons, Summoner of all Evil or whatever Ashton’s calling him today, he’s dressed in black skinny jeans, a jumper that’s just that little bit too big for him and hangs off his shoulders, and the fucking smirk he’s always wearing.

“Like what you see?” he asks, and Ashton rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might never roll back again.

“How many times has that line been used?” he fires back.

“Enough times for it to have worked at least once,” Hemmings says, and Ashton just fixes him with a steely glare in response because he can’t figure out what Hemmings means. He notices Michael watching the exchange between the two of them with an almost amused glint in his eyes, shooting an entertained look at Calum.

“Are you gonna flirt all day or are we gonna do some team building?” Niall says eventually, and everyone yells a rather enthusiastic _‘Team building!’_ whilst Ashton protests that there is absolutely  _zero_ flirting going on because Ashton has _taste_. He doesn’t think anyone can hear him over the sound of Jack and Alex cheering about fucking team building, but Hemmings smirks and shakes his head, staring at the ground.

Ashton hates people who do that. He hates Hemmings.

“Okay, so, you know your pairs, right?” Niall says, and everyone except Ashton and Hemmings nod enthusiastically. “Um, it says here the first task is three-legged races, so…anyone got a shirt they don’t mind ripping up?”

“Niall!” Calum says, sounding far more scandalised than he should for the suggestion of _ripping up a shirt_ , but then Alex calls out that they found scarves in a box next to Niall and everyone scrambles to get a scarf and bind their legs together. Ashton doesn’t move. Hemmings doesn’t either.

“Are you going to get the scarf?” Hemmings asks after a long moment.

“Does it look like it?” Ashton fires back. “If you want to be bound to me so desperately, fetch it yourself.”

“Fair enough,” Hemmings shrugs, ambling nonchalantly over to the box containing scarves and various other paraphernalia, from what Ashton can see, and picking out a pink one. Ashton stares at him in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” he asks. Hemmings shrugs, smirking.

“If the shoe fits…” he says, trailing off.

“You-“ Ashton can’t find a decent way of phrasing all the swear words and insults that are coursing around in his mind so he settles for shaking his head and gritting his teeth, seething quietly. “Alright. Let’s get it on, and over with.” Hemmings raises his eyebrows but shrugs again, walking over so he’s next to Ashton.

“Your left with my right, or your right with my left?” he asks.

“You think it’ll make a fucking difference?” Ashton grits out.

“I’m giving you the choice,” Hemmings says, pouting in a way that’s probably meant to be adorable but ends up infuriating.

“I don’t want it,” Ashton snaps, and Hemmings holds his hands up in defence before bending down and tying his right to Ashton’s left, knotting the silky fabric together clumsily. It’s unnerving, having Hemmings this close to him, makes Ashton’s skin itch and crawl and his stomach flip, feeling the heat radiating from Hemmings’ leg onto his own.

“Everyone ready?” Niall yells before Ashton has time to make a scathing comment about Hemmings’ terrible knot-tying skills. The three pairs all nod, Jack and Alex clinging to each other already as they can’t even _balance_ three-legged, Michael and Calum already laughing and joking as if they’ve been friends for the past decade, Ashton and Hemmings standing as far apart as it’s humanly possible to get when two of your limbs are tied together. “Alright, make your way to the starting line. Which is the start of that hundred metre thingy, by the way.”

“You’re at the start,” Ashton tells him. Niall rolls his eyes.

“Alright, Fusspants McFussPot, go to the _end_ then,” he says. “We’ll do it backwards.”

“What?” Jack shrieks. “I can’t do this forwards, let alone backwards!”

“Oh my God, my department are idiots,” Calum groans, and Ashton hears Hemmings snigger next to him.

“What’s so funny?” he asks coldly.

“Nothing,” Hemmings says mildly. “Story for another day.” Ashton doesn’t have time to question it because Hemmings pulls at his leg and makes him stumble, almost fall flat on his face as Hemmings strides towards the starting line (the finishing line? Ashton’s confusing himself now. Maybe he shouldn’t be such a pedant.)

“Ready?” Niall calls, when it looks like the three pairs have jostled themselves around enough to count as being on roughly the same line. “Three, two, one, go!”

Michael and Calum are off like a shot, fucking _stomping_ their way confidently towards the finishing line, completely in sync without even doing anything. Ashton kind of hates them, especially when he feels a huge tug on his leg and almost falls flat on his face. Again.

“Will you stop that?” he snaps eventually, and Hemmings looks at him with big, round, innocent eyes.

“Stop what?” he says. “You’re not moving, so I have to.”

“This is called _team building_ , not _drag an Irwin one hundred metres face-down_ ,” Ashton says, and Hemmings laughs, actually properly laughs, which throws Ashton for a minute before he settles on a scowl. Hemmings isn’t allowed to laugh at Ashton’s jokes.

“You’re right,” Hemmings agrees. “Are you going to work with me?”

“Do I have a choice?” Ashton says, gesturing at the pink sash on their shins. Hemmings looks down and shrugs, grinning.

“Guess not,” he says. “So, how are we gonna do this? One-two, one-two?”

“Brilliant,” Ashton deadpans. “Let me just lift leg one. Oh, wait, I only have a left and a right. My bad.”

“Left-right, left-right, then?” Hemmings suggests.

“Does it matter?” Ashton says. “We’re going to lose.” They already have lost, technically, because Michael and Calum have crossed the finishing line and are killing themselves laughing at the pairs still struggling to move a centimetre past the starting line. Bastards.

“We’re going to beat Jack and Alex, at any rate,” Hemmings says, nodding towards the pair, who have managed to move five steps _behind_ the starting line.

“Yeah, well,” Ashton says. He’d been counting on everyone else winning and Ashton and Hemmings taking so long that they were disqualified.

“Left-right, then?” Hemmings presses. Ashton rolls his eyes.

“If it pleases you,” he says, accompanying his statement with scowl number seven.

“Alright,” Hemmings says. “Left.” Ashton tries to lift his left leg at the same time Hemmings lifts his, and they move absolutely nowhere because Hemmings is a fucking _idiot_ and didn’t specify whose left.

“Brilliant,” Ashton says. “Just- wonderful.”

“ _My_ left, _your_ right,” Hemmings says, pointedly ignoring Ashton’s dramatic sighs and scoffs and rolled eyes.  “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he says.

“Left,” Hemmings says, and Ashton picks up his right whilst Hemmings picks up his left. “Right,” Hemmings says, and Ashton picks up his left, the leg bound to Hemmings’ right. It’s odd and unpleasant, working his and Hemmings’ bodies as if they were one entity.

“Left,” Hemmings murmurs again, and Ashton’s so caught up in wrinkling his nose at how  _uncomfortable_ it feels to have his leg pressed against Hemmings’ that he fucks up and lifts his left instead of right. Both of them stumble, but Hemmings regains his balance first and pulls on Ashton’s shirt to get him back up too, fingers brushing against the skin of Ashton’s hip when his shirt rides up.

“That one was your fault,” Hemmings accuses, not moving his hand from Ashton’s hip even though Ashton’s standing up perfectly well now. Ashton stares at him.

“Can you move your hand?” he says, and Hemmings frowns before his eyes widen in realisation and he moves his hand from where it had been, fingertips resting on Ashton’s hip. It feels better now. “And fuck off. This is a team effort.”

“You acting like that isn’t exactly going to help with the ‘team effort’,” Hemmings says, framing the words with sarcastic quotation marks. Ashton scowls.

“Neither is being a sarcastic little shit,” he counters.

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” Hemmings shrugs, and Ashton does not appreciate that at all, the suggestion that the way Hemmings is acting is a reflection of the way Ashton’s acting.

“Fuck off,” he snarls. “Can we just get this over and done with so I never have to spend another second in your presence again?”

“Ashton Irwin, not a team player. Who would have guessed?” Hemmings mutters. Ashton grits his teeth and curls his fingers into fists but says nothing, because he’s dangerously close to getting into an altercation with Hemmings and all it will mean is that Ashton has to spend even _more_ time in Hemmings’ presence and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Go,” he hisses, and Hemmings raises his eyebrows but complies.

“Left,” he says, and Ashton lifts his right. “Right.” Ashton lifts his left. “Left.” Ashton lifts his right again.

Once they get into a rhythm, it takes them no time at all to get to the end.

“Seven minutes, thirty-two seconds,” Niall crows, and Ashton spins to face Hemmings, to make a snide comment about how his gangly legs held them up, but when he turns he turns to face a Hemmings with a broad smile spread across his face, blue eyes lit up with some kind of inexplicable joy that Ashton tries extremely hard to find an excuse for.

“What?” Hemmings says after a moment, and Ashton realises he may have been staring a little. Sue him, okay, he’s never seen Hemmings properly smile before, only smirk. And he needs to know these things about Hemmings, because information is power, especially since they’re like, mortal enemies.

“I still hate you,” Ashton tells him, just in case Hemmings thinks that being tied together by a strip of pink satin and hobbling a hundred metres makes them best friends. Speaking of which, he needs to get rid of the aforementioned pink atrocity binding them together. “Stand still,” he tells Hemmings before Hemmings can move, because if he moves too much he’ll topple backwards and Ashton’ll fall on top of him and it’ll be the most awkward and nightmarish moment Ashton could ever live through.

Ashton bends down, kneeling on the one free knee he has and picking at the tight knot with fumbling fingers, finally prising a bit of it free and then untying the whole thing, pulling the fabric off their legs with a flourish.

“There,” he says, standing up and handing the material to Niall before taking a very large, very deliberate step away from Hemmings.

“Oh my God,” he hears Calum mutter to Michael. “Why does he work in our office? Why did he go for a job in marketing? Why isn’t he a fucking prima donna actor? He’s the biggest diva I know.”

Ashton needs to get a new set of staff members.

-

“Alright,” Niall says, once Calum and Ashton have finally managed to roll Jack and Alex all the way to the finishing line (and Ashton had thought seven minutes was bad. It’s nothing compared to thirty-two). “Who’s up for the next challenge?”

“Me!” Jack and Alex shout, and Ashton groans.

“Honestly, can’t we disqualify you somehow?” he says. “Time-wasting, or something.” Alex mock-gasps.

“How dare you,” he says dramatically. “Here I was, thinking we were meant to be working on inter-department relationships.”

“He’s not always like this,” Calum says, trying to defend Ashton, and Ashton thinks that maybe if Calum weren’t so Calum and less into Michael, he might marry him.

“What, is he usually worse?” Alex teases.

“Only when Luke’s involved,” Jack says, and Ashton wonders how far away the nearest knife is.

“Interesting,” Michael says, and it’s in exactly the same tone Calum would say it and Ashton kind of resents that.

“Fuck you, and fuck you,” Ashton says, pointing at Jack and Alex respectively. “And fuck _off_ ,” he adds, pointing at Michael, but Michael’s eyes just glitter in the same mischievous, calculating manner that Ashton knows his own do. He kind of likes Michael. If Calum has to be with anyone, Michael’s a good choice.

“All very interesting, but I’d rather we got on with the task at hand,” Niall says, eyeing the clock.

“You can have lunch when I say you can have lunch,” Ashton tells him, and Niall’s face falls.

“But-“

“I know you’ve got some snacks anyway, Niall, don’t try it,” Ashton says, and Niall looks sheepish.

“I need to keep my strength up,” he declares.

“You’re not even _doing_ anything,” Jack says. Niall throws him a scandalised look.

“Betrayed by me own kin!” he shouts, and he sounds so stupid that Ashton has to bite back a giggle.

“Can I transfer?” Calum asks, almost desperately. “You’re all so embarrassing.”

“Aw, Cal,” Ashton coos, walking over to him and cuddling as close as he can to him, batting his eyelashes theatrically and resting his head on Calum’s shoulder. Calum’s so used to Ashton clambering on him by now that his arm comes around Ashton instinctively, protectively, pulling Ashton closer.

“Endearing as you two are, _please_ can we start the next task?” Niall asks desperately. “You guys all look so stupid doing things, and I can’t _wait_ to see Luke and Ashton on this one.”

“Ooh, go on,” Jack says, and everyone except Ashton and Hemmings nods enthusiastically, eager to hear what torture Ashton will next have to endure. Niall clears his throat.

“You see all those newspapers in the box?” he says, and everyone murmurs a yes, some craning slightly to look at the newspapers, as if to reassure themselves that they are there.

(Ashton will never understand human behaviour.)

“Well,” Niall says, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “You have a roll of sellotape, as much newspaper as you need and a pair of scissors. Each pair has to make a table that will hold my weight.”

“Yours?” Calum asks. “Can I have some steel reinforcements as well, then?” Niall flips him off.

“See this?” he says, directing it at Ashton. “This is abuse. Verbal abuse of staff. I’m going to go home and cry over Calum calling me fat, and you’re not going to do anything about it because you like Calum best.”

“I didn’t mean it!” Calum says, immediately worried because much as he enjoys teasing his colleagues, he hates seeing them upset. “I was joking! I’m sorry, I-“

“Jesus, Cal, I was joking, but I’m glad you appreciate my physique,” Niall says, patting his stomach. “Anyway. Get to work, guys.” The pairs split off, except for Hemmings and Ashton (again), who are left standing hostilely next to each other.

“So,” Hemmings says. “A chair.”

“A chair,” Ashton echoes. “For Niall’s weight. That I have to build with you.” Hemmings grins.

“Oh, come on, it could be worse,” he says. Ashton stares at him in disbelief.

“It really, really couldn’t,” he says. Hemmings (probably wisely) chooses to ignore that comment.

“Right, well,” he says. “You get the newspaper, I’ll get the sellotape and scissors.”

“Oh, yeah, leave the _small_ one to get the most stuff,” Ashton says snidely.

“Alright then, you get the sellotape and scissors and I’ll get the newspaper.”

“Good,” Ashton says, walking to the box next to Niall and bending down to pick up some sellotape and a pair of scissors.

“How you doing?” Niall asks lowly as Ashton steps away from the box, allowing Hemmings to get some newspaper from it. Ashton throws him a withering look.

“I hope the next task involves either a bullet through him or a bullet through me,” he says seriously, and Niall grins.

“He’s not too bad,” he says.

“Yeah, he’s worse,” Ashton retorts, and Niall rolls his eyes.

“You’ll break the kid’s heart,” he says, and _ouch_.

“Serves him fucking right,” Ashton hisses, stalking away from Niall.

He hates it when any mention of Ashton’s past with Hemmings is brought up. It was a mistake – a stupid mistake, but an honest one. He’d been barely twenty and on his ‘experience’ year at university, and Hemmings had been an intern – young, fresh-faced, dimpled smile, bright eyes. Ashton had fallen fast, and he’d fallen hard.

Hemmings had flirted back with him, to be fair. _Hemmings_ had been the one to lead him on, let him down, embarrass him in front of the entire office by laughing in his face when Ashton had finally got the courage to nervously ask him out, saying _don’t you know I’ve been fucking James behind your back? Oh, you didn’t actually think I wanted you, did you? Not you, never you, Ash. Sorry, babe._

And Hemmings just _had_ to go off, had to do a weird uni course that finished earlier than literally everybody else’s, had to come back and be Head of Sales, had to come back and fuck Ashton’s life up. Because Ashton fucking hates Hemmings,

So, yeah, he has every right to be bitter about it, every right to hate Hemmings. Or maybe he _had_ a right, and he should be over it by now, be a mature adult like Calum’s always telling him to be. But whilst Hemmings saunters around like he does, smirks the way he does, looks the way he does, Ashton’s going to be nothing but hostile.

“Hey,” Hemmings says, snapping Ashton out of his anger-fuelled reminiscence, looking at him with big, concerned eyes. “You alright?”

“Fucking _fine_ , thanks for asking,” Ashton says, clenching his fists to stop himself from cutting Hemmings’ nose off with the scissors he’s just dropped on the floor. Hemmings looks down at the Sellotape and scissors, eyes flicking to Ashton’s clenched fists, and looks like he wants to say something but one look at Ashton eyes, challenging him – _I dare you, I fucking dare you to look me in the eye and ask me what’s wrong one more time_ – and clearly thinks better of it, taking a step back with the newspapers in his hand.

“Have you got a plan?” he asks.

“Do I look like I have a fucking plan?”

“What happened to you?” Hemmings asks, frowning. “I thought we were getting better.” Ashton laughs hysterically, throwing a glower at Hemmings at the end of it for good measure. _Getting better_.

“We’re not,” Ashton says as clarification, because Hemmings seems a bit taken aback by Ashton manic laughter, and he bends down to pick up the Sellotape and scissors again. “Let’s get today over with, and then I can go home and continue to despise you from a distance.”

Hemmings doesn’t say anything and Ashton doesn’t bother stopping to see the look on his face because he doesn’t _care_.

“Come _on_ ,” Ashton says, walking towards an emptier corner of the room because he doesn’t want to be in everyone’s direct line of vision because he can already feel Calum’s worried gaze, Niall’s amused one and Jack’s gleeful one making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“You need to stop sniping at me,” Hemmings says, dropping the newspaper onto the floor when they reach the corner and Ashton decides it’s satisfactory.  

“Excuse me?” Ashton says. “Who are you to tell me what I need and don’t need to do?” Hemmings rolls his eyes, and Ashton finds it – finds _him_ – so infuriating that he might actually ask Niall to provide him with a punchbag for the next task.

“Look,” he says, “can’t you just put this behind you for today? I’m not asking you to be my best friend or anything, just – be civil, so we can get some tasks done without any injuries. C’mon.”

“When you earn the right of me not sniping at you, I’ll stop,” Ashton retorts, glowering at Hemmings, because _really_ , after all they’ve been through? “And if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to have a quick department meeting.”

“Everyone’s doing their-“ Hemmings cuts himself off as Ashton stalks off, dropping the scissors and Sellotape, and nudges Calum and Jack on the shoulders before walking over to Niall, waiting for them to join him. Jack doesn’t look too pleased at the prospect of being pulled away from Alex, but he throws a look at Niall who throws a disparaging one right back and hastes towards the group, leaving a confused looking Hemmings, Michael and Alex in their wakes.

“What’s going on?” Calum whispers when the four of them huddle together.

“He’s driving me mad,” Ashton declares. “I can’t take it. I need someone to swap with me.”

“No way,” Jack says immediately. “I’m not swapping. You could cut off your _arm_ and I wouldn’t swap.” Ashton pulls a face.

“Why would I cut off my arm to try and convince you to swap?” Ashton says. “That leaves _me_ in a bad place, not you.”

“I'm not swapping _Michael_ ,” Calum says, as if in disbelief that Ashton would even pose the question, and Ashton groans, letting his eyes flutter shut.

“Guys,” he says. “ _Please_. I’ll double your wages for a year.”

“You can’t do that,” Calum says immediately. “Only Dad can.”

“I’ll get Hood to double your wages for a year,” Ashton amends.

“You-“

“I don’t care,” Ashton says desperately. “Please, honestly. He’s driving me mad.”

“I think you’re driving him mad, too,” Niall says, the first time he’s spoken for the entire conversation and Ashton hadn’t noticed but now that he has – that’s strange. That’s _odd_. Niall always comments on everything, even when it’s directed at other people. _Especially_ when it’s directed at other people.

“What do you mean?” Ashton asks, focusing on Niall along with everyone else.

“I’m just saying,” Niall says, sounding shrewder than he should. “I think you guys both need to chill out a bit.”

“What the fuck, Niall?” Ashton says. “You’re meant to be on _my_ side.”

“I _am_ ,” Niall says. “But…y’know. Maybe you’re being a bit harsh on the kid.”

Ashton’s lost for words.

“I’m firing you,” he tells Niall, “again. As for the rest of you, I’m docking your wages. In fact, I’m cutting your wages completely and extending your hours. I hate you all.”

“Tyrannical bosses,” Calum says, shaking his head, and Ashton hits him upside the head. “C’mon, Ash. Cool off a bit. The kid’s older now, you’re older now, and you need to learn to get over yourself. Things like that might happen again in the future; you can’t hold grudges forever.”

“I can,” Ashton says grimly. “Watch me.” He gives each of his department the finger in turn, because they’re all out to get him, and stalks back over to a slightly bemused Hemmings.

“Are you quite finished?” Hemmings asks, an amused tone to his voice. Ashton grits his teeth, but remembers Niall and Calum’s words (unwittingly) and says nothing sarcastic in response.

“Let’s just do this,” he mutters. “Does a stool count? We could make a stool.”

“Isn’t a stool like, a foot thing?” Hemmings asks.

“What do you suggest, then?” Ashton asks crossly. “It’s got to hold Ni’s weight, remember.” Hemmings looks at him curiously, and Ashton blinks. “What the fuck?” he asks angrily, poised for a fight.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Hemmings shrugs. “You have nicknames for your department.”

“What, you don’t?” Ashton asks. Hemmings shrugs again.

“Alex says Lex is something only Jack’ll be allowed to call him, and there’s only so much you can make out of Michael without it sounding like he’s a four year old,” he says.

“The way things are going right now, Michael Hood looks like a pretty good bet,” Ashton remarks, nodding over at the pair, who already have a seat with four legs. Ashton hates them. Hemmings laughs, and it makes Ashton feel slightly odd, because _yes_ , Hemmings isn’t allowed to laugh at his jokes, but  _fuck_ if he doesn’t sound good doing it.

(And Ashton thinks he might be possessed, because there is no way in _hell_ that he would think that himself. Never in a million years.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXAMS ARE OVER UR GONNA BE GETTING SO MANY FICS OFF ME

Ashton’s a pretty competitive person by nature. He likes to win, and he hates to be beaten. In fact, he hates being beaten so much that he’ll rarely engage in something competitive unless he’s at least eighty percent sure he’s going to win.

And looking around, Michael and Calum with their half-finished chair, Alex and Jack with their one leg and then back at the pile of newspapers on the floor next to Ashton and Hemmings, Ashton thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can be civil for this. Because the way Michael and Calum are working (with a work ethic that Ashton has  _never seen_ from Calum), there’s no  _way_  he’s going to come first,  but he’d rather beat Jack and Alex and be a little less rude to Hemmings than lose and never hear the end of it.

So he figures that for today at least, he can be civil. Not nice, not kind, but less rude.

"Shall we just do a traditional chair?” he says, rounding on Hemmings, who casts a doubtful glance at the pile of newspapers on the floor.

“How small do you reckon we can get away with?” he asks.

“As long as it holds Ni’s weight, I don’t think it matters,” Ashton says.

“How much does Niall weigh?” Hemmings asks, and Ashton pulls a face. He hasn’t tried to lift Niall in a while.

“Hey, Ni,” he shouts, and Niall whips around from where he’s been shamelessly ogling Michael (surprisingly, Calum doesn’t seem to mind all that much). “C’mere a minute.” Niall obliges, ambling over with his hands his pockets.

“Alright?” he asks.

“How much d’you weigh?” Hemmings asks. Niall shrugs.

“Enough,” he says. Ashton rolls his eyes. Enough for what?

“Let Hemmings lift you,” he says, and Niall’s eyes widen and he takes a step back.

“Nah, mate,” he says, “you’re alright.”

“No,” Ashton says insistently. “C’mon, we need to know for the chair.”

“No one else got to weigh me,” Niall protests.

“No one else thought of it,” Ashton corrects. “I’ll fire you if you don’t let me.” Niall grins.

“How many times is that you’ve fired me now, thirty-four?” Ashton scowls.

“You keep coming back; it’s not my fault,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Niall.

“You need me,” Niall says cheerfully, and Ashton’s scowl deepens, because he hates how true it is. He needs all of them. “Fine. Luke can lift me, but only for two seconds.”

“Alright,” Ashton says, motioning for Hemmings to do as Niall says. Hemmings obliges, walking around Niall and wrapping his arms around Niall’s stomach before lifting him up. Niall squeals and kicks his legs out and Ashton cackles for a good three seconds before Hemmings puts him down again, the tail end of a smirk visible on his face.

“That was more than two seconds!” Niall says accusingly, pointing a finger at Hemmings.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it,” Hemmings says, winking exaggeratedly.

“I hate you,” Niall says, directing his words at Ashton, and Ashton widens his eyes and holds his hands up in a display of innocence.

“You agreed to it,” he says.

“You said you’d fire me.”

“You always come running back anyway.”

“I’m docking points from your team for Ashton being a massive prick,” Niall tells the two of them, and walks away before either of them can protest.

“Since when was there a points system?” Ashton asks in disbelief.

“Niall just makes these things up as he goes along, doesn’t he?” Hemmings says in a tone of equal incredulity.

“Niall makes almost everything up as he goes along,” Ashton says, shaking his head. “C’mon, we’d better get going.”

“Right,” Hemmings says, pulling a face at the pile of newspapers on the floor next to them. “Shall we start with the legs or base?”

“One of us can do each,” Ashton says. “I’ll start on the base, you start on the legs, and when I’m done I’ll do the legs with you.”

“Alright,” Hemmings says amiably, nodding, and Ashton nods once, curtly, bending down to pick up some newspaper and the roll of sellotape, straightening to find Hemmings’ eyes where they most certainly shouldn’t be.

“What the fuck?” Ashton spits, anger spiking white-hot in his veins. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Hemmings says but it’s too fast, too defensive.

“Keep your filthy eyes to yourself,” Ashton says angrily, suddenly oddly self-conscious.

“You wouldn’t have said that two years ago,” Hemmings mutters under his breath, and it takes all of Ashton’s self-restraint to hold his tongue, biting his cheek, curling his toes, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hand so hard he can feel the crescent-shaped marks they’re leaving.

“I’m going to sit over here,” he says, as carefully as he can, “and you’re not going to come near me. You’re not even going to  _look_ at me. You might not make it out alive.” Hemmings looks like he’s about to say something but Ashton glares at him, the deathliest glare he can muster, and Hemmings seems to think better of it and lets Ashton walk a few paces away and sit cross-legged on the floor (which his jeans completely disagree with) with his newspaper and the sellotape.

“Wait,” Hemmings says, as soon as Ashton sits down. “What are we going to do with the sellotape? We only have one roll.”

“Nick some off Jack and Alex,” Ashton says. “They won’t notice it’s gone.” Hemmings looks uncertain, but says nothing, and Ashton gets to work. It’s not actually all that hard, just involves a lot of folding and laying and ripping sellotape with his teeth because he’s not the kind of person that has the time to cut it neatly with scissors (and also he’d left the scissors over with Hemmings and he doesn’t want to admit defeat and walk over). It really doesn’t take long for him to finish the base at all, maybe ten minutes at most, but he’s used quite a lot of sellotape so he hopes Hemmings has taken Ashton’s advice and stolen some of Jack and Alex’s.

It’s with a heavy heart that he heaves himself up, seat of the chair/stool/object to be sat on in one hand, remaining sellotape and newspaper in the other, and makes his way back over to Hemmings, who’s successfully made two legs.

“Done?” Hemmings asks, and Ashton has to bite back a sarcastic  _no, I came over to have a heart to heart_  and nod instead of opening his mouth, chucking the base on the ground in front of Hemmings.

“Did you steal some sellotape off Jack and Alex, then?” Ashton asks, sitting down opposite Hemmings and picking up some newspaper from the pile in between them. Hemmings nods, pointing at all the sellotape stuck to his jeans. Classy.

“Right,” Ashton says, watching the way Hemmings is making his third leg and trying to emulate it. His hands are…oddly graceful, wrapping around the near-cylindrical leg, fingers working nimbly to flatten unwanted flaps and smooth the sellotape in the right places. Ashton thinks that those are the fingers of a guitarist, maybe, or a flautist. Or someone who masturbates far too often.

He pushes away the mental image of Hemmings on stage with a guitar, biting at his stupid lip ring, and gets to work, copying Hemmings’ movements until they’ve got two brand new legs to attach to the seat of the chair. Thanks to Ashton being rather liberal with it whilst making the seat, though, they haven’t got much of it left.

“We’re going to have to do this carefully,” Hemmings says, frowning at the thin roll of sellotape and the thick bundles of newspaper that are the legs of the stool-chair-thing. “If you hold the leg, like, here, at the top, I’ll stick the sellotape around the side and try and get it to attach to the chair.”

“We don’t have that much left,” Ashton says. “Is that going to stay? I mean, Niall’s hardly the lightest of people.”

“It’s what we’ve got,” Hemmings says with a shrug. “It can’t be worse than Jack and Alex’s, anyway.” Ashton twists around to look at what Jack and Alex have managed so far – two differently-sized legs that have been stuck either side of the seat.

“How did they even manage that?” Ashton asks in disbelief. “How can you fuck up a chair  _that badly_?”

“I don’t know about Jack,” Hemmings says grimly, “but Alex is perfectly capable of fucking the simplest tasks up. As is Michael, actually.” Ashton wrinkles his nose.

“My whole department fucks up the simplest tasks,” he says, kneeling forwards and picking up one of the chair legs, holding it over the seat. “Niall managed to destroy a coffee machine and the entire room it was in whilst trying to make a cappuccino.” Hemmings laughs, which startles Ashton.

“I heard about that,” he says, starting to wrap sellotape around the base of the leg. “Your department’s pretty infamous. Not in like, a bad way. Everybody wants to be part of Marketing.” Ashton scoffs.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “ _I_ don’t even want to be a part of Marketing.”

“No, really,” Hemmings says, and he looks up at Ashton, blue eyes earnest. “I mean, like, everybody loves their own departments, but  _everybody_  loves Marketing. As if Pete Wentz would let anybody else steal Patrick Stump’s TV.”

“I don’t think so,” Ashton says, but it makes him have to hide a smile all the same. “Glad to know everybody knows about that, though.”

“Everybody knows about everything, in our office,” Hemmings says, and the stupid fucking memory of Hemmings’ smirk whilst telling Ashton he didn’t care about him, never wanted him resurfaces. Ashton presses it down, away, out.

“Mhmm,” Ashton says, throat suddenly thick with the need to yell some abuse at Hemmings because it’s been at  _least_ fifteen minutes of civility and he doesn’t know how much longer he can take. Hemmings looks like he’s torn about wanting to say something and wanting to leave it (and Ashton really, really hopes he chooses the latter option) but thankfully Ashton’s phone buzzes in his pocket, interrupting any potential conversation.

“Sorry,” Ashton says, “let me just-“ He lets go of the chair leg and lifts his arse off his heels, fishing around in his back pocket for his phone and unlocking it.

 **_Jack Barakat  
_ ** _IS THAT AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION I SEE GOING ON BETWEEN YOU AND LUKE HEMMINGS_

Ashton scowls at his phone, and then over at Jack, who’s smirking at him and winks when Ashton catches his eye.

 **_Me_ ** _  
You’re fired._

 **_Jack Barakat_ ** _  
I’m trying to catch up with Niall on the number of times I’ve been fired_

 **_Jack Barakat_ ** _  
Fire me again_

 **_Me_ ** _  
Masochist_

 **_Jack Barakat_ ** _  
If that’s how you want me_

Ashton tucks his phone back in his pocket without replying, glowering at Jack, and returns to the task at hand, ignoring Hemmings’ quizzical looks.

“Was that Jack?” he asks, and Ashton grunts an affirmative. “Oh.” Ashton doesn’t reply, gritting his teeth, and they finish the stool in silence.

“Nice stool,” Calum says, wandering over when Ashton and Hemmings lean back from the stool, admiring their handiwork. “Have you ever seen a real chair?”

“I’ll shove a real chair up your  _arse_ ,” Ashton tells him, getting to his feet and dusting off his hands.

“You’d have to ask Michael for permission,” Hemmings chimes in, and Ashton wishes that comment had come from anyone but Hemmings because it’s  _good_ , makes Calum scowl and glower at him.

“Just ‘cause you can’t get any, Hemmings,” Calum says, pointing a finger at him.

“I’d rather have none than chairs up my arse,” Hemmings says.

“Nobody mentioned chairs up my arse as part of my relationship status,” Calum says.

“I did,” Hemmings says.

“What’s going on?” Niall asks, waltzing over. “Ooh, that’s a nice little footstool. How am I going to sit on that?”

“Listen,” Ashton says, “if all you came over here for is to shit on our handiwork you can fuck off.”

“Are you going to fire me?” Niall asks. “Again?”

“What?” Jack yells from across the room. “You can’t fire him  _again_ , Ash, c’mon. I need to match his record.”

“Excuse me?” Niall sounds affronted. “I’m on, like, thirty-seven. You’re on, like, twelve.”

“How about I fire you  _both_?” Ashton asks.

“And be stuck alone with Calum?” Niall asks incredulously.

“Hey,” Calum says. “Better me than you. At least we’ll have a functioning coffee machine and a  _proper meeting room_.”

“Who got the coffee machine in the first place?” Niall argues.

“You, because you fucking destroyed the other one,” Calum says. “How about you get us a new meeting room?”

“We have one,” Niall says defensively.

“It’s the communal area in the middle of our offices,” Ashton says.

“It’s open-plan.”

“It’s meant to be like, a bigger version of a corridor,” Ashton says. “Not a meeting room.”

“It’s got fairy lights in it!”

“We aren’t having this discussion now,” Ashton says tiredly, because God, sometimes he feels like he’s married to his entire department.

“Yes, we are,” Jack yells obnoxiously.

“Time for lunch!” Michael shouts suddenly, and Niall looks up immediately.

“I like him,” he says. “Let’s swap Ashton for Michael.”

“I’m in,” Calum says.

“No you’re not,” Ashton says. “I’m firing you.”

“We just replaced you with Michael,” Niall says. “You don’t have that power.”

“I hate the lot of you,” Ashton says, and Niall grins, blows him a kiss before running off after Michael in the direction of wherever the food is.

“Love you too!” Jack shouts, flipping Ashton off as he sprints off with Alex, probably to find food but maybe to fuck; Ashton can’t be sure.

“Food?” Calum asks, and Ashton shakes his head. He’s not hungry. “Alright. See you in a bit then, yeah?” He presses a swift kiss to Ashton’s cheeks and Ashton wrinkles his nose, so Calum grins and kisses the tip of Ashton’s nose as well before making his way to the food as well.

The room’s eerily quiet now, with only Ashton and Hemmings in the gym that had housed five other noisy twentysomethings, and Ashton shifts uncomfortably. He wants Hemmings to go and get food as well, leave him alone to stew in his thoughts.

“Hey,” Hemmings says, after a moment, but then he doesn’t say anything else and Ashton wonders if maybe he has some kind of problem where he speaks without meaning to. It would explain a whole damn lot.

“Yeah?” Ashton says, after a while, simply because that ‘hey’ hanging between them felt awful. He doesn’t  _want_  to talk to Hemmings.

“You seem pretty close with Calum,” Hemmings says after a while. Ashton shrugs.

“Well, yeah,” he says. “He’s my best friend. I’ve known him since we were kids.”

“Oh,” Hemmings says, and then; “Are you together?” Ashton stares at him incredulously, taking in the slight blush tinting Hemmings’ cheeks, the way he’s scuffing his shoes against the linoleum floor, the nervous manner in which his right hand is holding his left wrist at his side.

“No,” Ashton splutters. “Ew,  _fuck_  no. Calum’s straight, anyway.” Straight _ish_ , he amends mentally, remembering the slight experimentation Calum had been totally up for (literally) when they were horny teenagers.

“Oh,” Hemmings says, biting his lip and chewing almost thoughtfully at his lip ring.

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Is that all? ‘Cause, like, I still hate you. Quite a lot. A hell of a lot. And I’d like you to leave me alone.” Hemmings blinks.

“Right,” he says. “You hate me.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world because- well, it is. He’d even explicitly reminded Hemmings earlier. “So, like. You fucking off would be greatly appreciated.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Hemmings asks, but it’s not even a challenge.

“Life’s not about what  _you_  want, Hemmings,” Ashton says.

“Why d’you still call me that?” Hemmings asks. Ashton frowns.

“Call you what?” he asks.

“Hemmings,” Hemmings says.

“Because it’s your name?” Ashton says.

“My name’s Luke,” Hemmings says.

“You really think you deserve the privilege of me calling you by your first name after- after everything?” Ashton asks, and it’s a little bitter and a lot spiteful.

“You’re not still-“

“Yes, I’m still fucking pissed about that,” Ashton says, feeling his anger spike again, sudden and fierce and  _God_  Hemmings brings out the worst in him. “You- fuck. Just.” He throws his hands in the air, and Hemmings looks like he’s about to say something but Ashton doesn’t want to hear it and Hemmings won’t leave of his own accord so Ashton does the manly thing, spins on his heel and walks out. He walks down endless corridors (which, fuck, maybe he should have gone with Calum since he’s the only one who seems to know his way around) until he’s well and truly lost, but he spots a men’s toilet and walks in there.

It’s empty, thankfully, although it’s not really a surprise since it’s tucked away at the end of a long, winding corridor that Ashton had accidentally stumbled upon, and it looks kind of disused. The cubicles are grimier than anything else Ashton’s seen in this place (although, granted, he hasn’t seen a lot of it) and the mirrors are framed by a layer of dirt and dust. It looks like even the staff have forgotten it exists, but Ashton’s okay with that because he needs time alone to think.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a few seconds, taking in the angry red hue of his face, the bitter fury that’s still present in his eyes, before he sighs and sinks down, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall between the sinks and the cubicles.

Ashton is well and truly fucked, and he doesn’t even know why.

Everything’s swimming around in his mind. He’s been so fucking angry  _all day_ and it’s draining him, exhausting him to constantly have adrenaline coursing around his body, tiring him to have to relive the humiliation of being told  _not you, never you, Ash_ in front of the entire office over and over and over again. He  _hates_  Hemmings, hates what Hemmings is doing, making him all tired and confusing him and making him feel awful. But then he remembers Hemmings’ laugh, his genuine laugh at something Ashton had said, and it had been such a weirdly cute little sound and Ashton had liked it,  _loved_  it, and it was like the old days all over again and Ashton wants to die because it can’t be, he  _hates_ Hemmings, he doesn’t like anything about him.

Okay, so, like, maybe he likes the way Hemmings laughs. A little bit. Maybe he can put up with the idea of hating everything about Hemmings except his laugh.

But then he remembers the way Hemmings had laughed after telling Ashton he never wanted him and that stupid fucking anger comes back and Ashton’s just so  _tired_ , doesn’t know how he’s going to cope another trillion hours of having his guard up, making biting comments, being in Hemmings’ company. He wants to get out of here because it’s just not worth it anymore. He wants to carry on hating Hemmings from afar because it doesn’t take as much out of him as this does. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

So he just pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them and rests his forehead against his knee, letting the drained feeling wash him over until he can barely move anymore.

-

It feels like an age until Ashton has the strength to stand up again, clinging to a sink for support as he gets to his feet. It probably  _has_  been an age, because the light’s dulled a little outside. And he’s completely lost, because this place is like a maze and Ashton seems to be one of the unfortunate humans born without an internal SatNav. Fuck.

He pulls out his phone, checks the time – yeah, it’s been an hour, but Niall usually stays with the remnants of food for at least half an hour, gazing at the crumbs wistfully – and sends a quick text to Calum. He’s got several missed calls and texts from him and the other boys, but he doesn’t bother reading them.

 **_Me_ ** _  
Calum I’m lost_

Calum’s reply is instantaneous, as if he’s been waiting for Ashton to text him. Which he might have been.

 **_Calum Hood_ ** _  
Where are you jesus Ashton I was so worried about you_

 **_Calum Hood_ ** _  
Luke said you had a fight and then you stormed off but he didn’t see where you went_

**_Calum Hood  
_** _Are you okay_

**_Me_ ** _  
Some toilet at the end of a corridor it was a really long corridor I went up some stairs to get there I really don’t know where I am at all_

 **_Me_ ** _  
Yeah we had a fight_

 **_Me_ ** _  
I’m better now_

He doesn’t bother lying to Calum, because he’s fine  _now_ but he wasn’t fine before and Calum’ll understand and he’d know if Ashton was lying to him anyway.

 **_Calum Hood_ ** _  
Alright stay there I’m coming_

 **_Me_ ** _  
I wasn’t exactly planning on going anywhere when I have no fucking idea where I am_

Calum doesn’t reply, and Ashton takes the chance to play a game of Flappy Birds whilst wondering how embarrassing it’s going to be when he walks in to a full room of Sales and Marketing people, all of them knowing him and Hemmings had had a fight and then he’d stormed off and got lost, like some stupid sulky three year old. He gets through about twelve rounds before he hears footsteps and pockets his phone, rushing to the door to look out and see Calum walking down the corridor.

“Calum!” he says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever sounded so relieved to see his best friend in his entire life. He doesn’t think  _anyone_  has.

“Christ, Ash,” Calum says, running the last stretch and wrapping his arms tightly around Ashton. Ashton breathes in Calum’s scent, burying his head in his shoulder as Calum picks him up off the ground, hugs him even tighter. It feels like a reunion of two people who haven’t seen each other in a decade, not an hour. “You scared me so much. You can’t run off like that.”

“Who are you, my mum?” Ashton mumbles, but it’s muffled by Calum’s shoulder. “I’m twenty-three. I can do what I like.”

“Right, okay, sure,” Calum says, hoisting Ashton’s legs up to wrap around his waist. Ashton hooks his arms around Calum’s neck, pulls away a bit and stares down at Calum. “‘Cause every twenty-three year old runs off having a tantrum like a four year old.” Ashton scowls, digging his heels into Calum’s butt and hoping it hurts.

“I didn’t want to be in a room with Hemmings alone,” he says, only realising after the words have left his mouth that it makes him sound like even more of a petulant child. Whatever.

“You’re not usually this clingy after a fight,” Calum says, subtly asking whether something more important is wrong.

“You’re not usually this clingy after not seeing me for an hour,” Ashton retorts, ignoring the subtext of Calum’s comment.

“I don’t usually have to be,” Calum throws back, and Ashton scowls because that’s such a good comeback and Ashton  _never_ has good comebacks. It’s one of the main reasons Calum’s his sidekick.

“I just- got a bit tired,” Ashton says, dropping his forehead to rest against Calum’s. “Fighting Hemmings, I mean. Going through that old memory again. Tired me out a bit.”

“Having your guard up so high all the time isn’t exactly going to un-tire you,” Calum says.

“Yeah, well,” Ashton says, with a shrug. “Least I’ve got you to pick me up and carry me if I get too tired.”

“I’m not your slave, Irwin,” Calum says, putting Ashton down gently. He presses a kiss to Ashton’s forehead as consolation, though, so Ashton doesn’t pout too much. “C’mon. Everyone else is wondering where you are.”

“Did you tell them I got lost?” Ashton asks as they start off down the corridor, and Calum shakes his head. Relief washes through Ashton again, and he smiles without meaning to. Thank  _God_.

“I told them you wanted me to come and have a look at something,” Calum says.

“What a brilliant excuse,” Ashton deadpans, and Calum scowls.

“Alright, I’ll walk in and tell them  _hey, Ashton and Luke had a fight and Ashton wasn’t man enough to sit in a room with Luke so he waltzed out and managed to get himself lost_. Would you prefer that?” It’s Ashton’s turn to scowl.

“You’re the world’s worst best friend,” he tells Calum as they round a corner. “I don’t know why I keep you around.”

“‘Cause if it weren’t me, your choice of best friends would be Jack and Niall, and I can’t think of anything worse,” Calum says. Ashton wrinkles his nose, glowers a little, but says nothing, because he’s a wonderful person. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM DEAD ITS BEEN SO LONG I FEEL BAD I HPOE THIS KINDA MAKES UP FOR IT SORRY FOR THE ENDING AND WOW UR PROBABLY GONNA BE LEFT HANGING ON THIS FOR A LONG TIME OOSP 
> 
> ((also i got some anons on tumblr about this fic and they made me smile so hard i nearly broke my cheeks orsomething thank u so much for liking this fic enought o send me messages about it pleAS im smiling jst thinking about it))

Nobody pays much attention to Ashton and Calum when they walk back in. Jack and Alex are bickering over whose fault it was that one of the legs of the chair is longer than the others, resulting in an unbalanced chair which will almost definitely topple over, and Niall’s complaining to Michael that he won’t be able to sit in it anyway since they forgot to add a fourth leg. Hemmings isn’t doing anything, just standing by himself, eyes flickering from Michael and Niall to Jack and Alex to the floor and back. He’s the only one who notices that Calum and Ashton have returned, starting slightly and unclasping his hands from in front of him, making to walk over to Ashton.

“Keep him away,” Ashton says in a low voice to Calum. “I don’t want him near me.”

“Ash,” Calum says. “You’ve still got half the day left.” Ashton scowls.

“Thanks for reminding me,” he mutters under his breath, slouching back over to where Hemmings is standing. Calum nudges his shoulder once, a kind of _good luck_ before he peels off, goes over to a grinning Michael. Ashton wishes he had been paired with Michael. He hates Hemmings.

“You alright?” Hemmings asks. Ashton glowers at him, but chooses to ignore the statement. _Civil_ , he reminds himself. He can do civil.

(Probably.)

“When’s Niall coming to try ours?” Ashton asks.

“I don’t know,” Hemmings says, “I mean, he’s got to brave Jack and Alex’s first.”

“How’s he going to sit on a chair that has three legs?” Ashton asks. Hemmings shrugs.

“He could use his dick,” Hemmings suggests. Ashton chokes on the breath he’s taking, and Hemmings smirks at him.

“Whatever,” Ashton says once he’s recovered, choosing not to question Hemmings’ apparent knowledge of Niall and his genitals. “At least that takes the number of colleagues I have to kill down to two.” Hemmings is quiet for a moment.

“It must be nice, working in an office with your childhood best friend,” he says. “Like. I don’t know. He already knows all your secrets and your past and stuff. You can’t have a lot to hide.” Ashton blinks. Where’s that come from?

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “It’s nice sometimes, like when I’m not in the best of moods because Cal always knows exactly how to cheer me up, but then there’s like-“ he cuts himself off. He doesn’t really want to tell Hemmings the whole _it kind of sucks that he remembers how I used to be because I’ve changed, I’ve changed so much_ thing, because that’s how he actually feels and it’s- he doesn’t want to expose himself like that, shed a layer of himself and bare a little more. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, when it becomes clear that Hemmings thinks he hasn’t finished speaking.

“Oh,” Hemmings says, and he looks down and scuffs his shoes a little. Ashton has no idea what’s up with that, but he doesn’t really care either way.

He contents himself with watching Jack and Alex’s squabbling for a while, listening to a constant stream of _Lex, it was you who had that newspaper_ and _I’m not a fucking idiot though, am I, so who’s to blame? Clearly you_ and _I’m going to take off another leg of the chair and beat you to death with it unless you admit that it’s your fault we have a chair with three legs_. It’s kind of cute, watching them argue like a married couple, but he can feel Hemmings’ presence next to him and it’s unnerving, being hyperaware of every move Hemmings makes.

“Michael and I used to hate each other, you know,” Hemmings blurts after a drawn-out moment of silence between them. “I don’t think anybody else knows that. Even Alex.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked Michael,” Ashton mutters. Hemmings ignores him.

“Back in Year Nine,” he adds, and Ashton frowns, turning to look at him.

“You’ve known Michael that long?” he says. Hemmings nods.

“We _despised_ each other,” he says. “Like, one time we were put together in Music for some stupid project which was what gave us our grade for that term and Michael literally refused to do it and got a shitty grade for the term rather than work with me.” Ashton raises his eyebrows.

“What changed?” he asks. Hemmings shrugs.

“We realised we were being stupid, I think,” he says. “And I got over my crush.” Ashton gapes at him.

“You had a crush on Michael?” he asks incredulously. Hemmings nods.

“This _was_ back when we were like, fourteen,” he reminds Ashton. “I’ve changed. I’m no longer into fluffy near-bald boys.”

“I can’t believe you had a crush on Michael,” Ashton says. “I’m going to tell Calum that. He’s going to hate you forever. He’s going to think you’re competing with him for the fluffy near-bald dick.” Hemmings pulls a face.

“As long as he’s not competing with me,” he says, shoving his hands in his pocket with a smile and sauntering away, leaving a pretty fucking confused Ashton staring at him.

(“Fiver says they hook up today,” Jack says to Alex, eyes flickering over to Ashton, staring at the back of a smirking Luke.

“I’m not betting where I know I’m going to _lose_ ,” Alex says, crossing his arms. “Like you lost the newspaper for the fourth leg.”

“I won’t hesitate to take this to court,” Jack promises.)

-

Unsurprisingly, Michael and Calum’s chair wins. Niall had tried to disqualify Hemmings and Ashton’s chair for being ‘more something I’d rest my dick than my body weight on’ but Michael had said that since Jack and Alex’s chair was already out due to being impossible to sit on, Niall couldn’t disqualify Hemmings and Ashton too as Michael and Calum needed ‘someone to beat’.

They’re all lounging around now, sitting in a huge kind-of circle since Niall had claimed the next task written on the paper was ‘too boring to do’. Ashton’s got his head in Calum’s lap and Calum’s playing with his hair but it’s absent-minded, as he’s focusing on his conversation with Michael. Ashton doesn’t really care, though; as long as someone’s touching his hair or showing him any kind of affection, he’s happy.

“Hey,” Hemmings says, sitting down cross-legged in front of Ashton. Ashton groans and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t you have better people to bother?” he asks. Hemmings grins.

“Nope,” he says. “Having fun?” He nods at where Calum’s got his fingers tangled in the mess of Ashton’s hair, threading through the curls gently and scratching at his scalp every once in a while. It’s such a comfortable feeling that it’s making Ashton feel drowsy, too lazy to argue with Hemmings about yet another thing.

“Mhmm,” Ashton sighs, wriggling a little so his head’s even further in Calum’s lap. He can almost feel the heat of Calum’s probably-hard-from-talking-to-Michael dick from where he’s sitting. He’s kind of tempted to prod it just to see, but Michael might not appreciate that and Ashton thinks Michael’s a pretty cool dude. Hemmings doesn’t add anything else, so Ashton lets his eyes flutter shut and lets himself sink into the feeling of Calum playing with his hair, getting closer and closer to actually falling asleep until he thinks he might actually be asleep and doesn’t want to open his eyes in case he isn’t.

“Do you have my number?” he hears someone ask after what feels like a long, long time, and he turns his head towards the voice, opening his eyes. It’s Hemmings.

“No?” Ashton says. “Why would I have your number? Why would I _want_ your number?” Hemmings shrugs.

“Building inter-department relationships?” he suggests. “Hood wants us to consider a merge, after all.” Ashton snorts.

“’M not merging with you,” he tells Hemmings. “I’m not going to share Cal with you. Or Ni. Or Jack. Actually, second thoughts, you can have Jack. And Niall. But not Cal.”

“They’re part of your department, though,” Hemmings points out.

“Exactly,” Ashton mumbles, “so I’m not sharing. _My_ department, not _our_ department.” He doesn’t want _our_ anything with Hemmings.

“We need to think about what’s best for the _company_ , not what’s best for Ashton Fletcher Irwin,” Hemmings says. Ashton blinks at him.

“How the fuck do you know my middle name?” he demands, sitting up and nearly causing Calum to rip a whole clump of hair from his head.

“Must have heard it,” Hemmings says. He looks suddenly uncomfortable, like he wants to get out of this situation. Ashton’s not going to let him.

“You can’t have,” Ashton says. “Only Cal knows my middle name. Even Niall doesn’t know it.”

“Uh,” Hemmings says, “I must’ve heard Calum say it. To you.”

“No,” Ashton says. “We made a promise when we were fifteen that I’d stop calling him Asian if he never said my middle name ever again.”

“Oh,” Hemmings says. “Don’t know, then. Maybe it was a lucky guess.”

“Have you been fucking stalking me?” Ashton demands, because he’s got this queasy, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and he feels like he might throw up. Hemmings _knows stuff_ about him, stuff like his middle name that he’s never told anyone except Calum.

“No,” Hemmings says, scoffing. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Ashton laughs, but it’s humourless and he can feel Calum stiffen behind him, drop out of his conversation with Michael to listen and make sure Ashton’s alright.

“Don’t flatter _my_ self?” Ashton says. “That’s fucking rich coming from you, Hemmings. You-“

“Ashton,” Calum says gently, reaching out and touching the small of Ashton’s back. “C’mon.”

“Go away, Luke,” Michael groans from next to Calum. “You ruin _everything_.”

“For God’s sake,” Hemmings mutters, but he gets to his feet and walks away, sits down by himself away from everybody else.

“I hate him,” Ashton says, and his blood is boiling all over again and _fuck_ he really needs to stop getting angry at Luke fucking Hemmings. “I fucking hate him.”

“We know,” Calum says, with a long-suffering sigh.

-

“Alright,” Niall announces, once he’s bored. “Time for the next task.” There’s a chorus of quiet grumbles and muttering, but everybody gets to their feet. Jack sways slightly, getting his balance back, and knocks into Alex who falls straight back to the ground. Ashton barely has the heart to laugh.

“What is it?” Michael asks. “Does it involve hurting Luke?”

“If it doesn’t, I’m not doing it,” Ashton says. Calum throws him an exasperated look.

“Can we include a task that involves breaking Ashton’s legs?” Calum asks Niall. “Or maybe sewing his mouth shut.”

“ _Traitor_ ,” Ashton says, pointing at him accusingly. “That’s your wages gone for like, the rest of eternity.”

“You cut them earlier,” Calum reminds him. “I’d rather have no wages and still have a memory.” Ashton scowls.

“Shit like that is _exactly_ why I cut your wages,” he tells him.

“You guys need couples counselling,” Jack tells them.

“Says you, Mr I-Didn’t-Lose-The-Chair-Leg-You-Did,” Ashton throws back.

“Marketing looks like so much more fun than Sales,” Michael says longingly. “I’m transferring.”

“You won’t need to,” Calum tells him. “Dad wants to merge us.”

“It’s not happening,” Ashton says, “don’t worry.”

“Right,” Niall says loudly. “This is the last task, I think, ‘cause it’s quite a long one. We missed out, like, four, because some were boring and Jack and Alex are shit at literally everything.”

“Hey,” Alex protests.

“Babe,” Jack says, placing an arm on Alex’s forearm, “don’t fight him on something you can’t even deny.” Alex scowls but relents, leaning into Jack a little.

“It’s a treasure hunt,” Niall says gleefully. “I’ve hidden stuff around, right? And each group has to follow the clues to get to their- it’s not really a prize. I’m going to call it a prize anyway.”

“Great,” Ashton mutters under his breath, and Calum treads on his foot.

“Behave,” Calum says.

“So each group has a starting clue and you have to find the things around the building. Alright?” Niall says. Ashton doesn’t say anything, just glowers at the floor and scuffs his shoes a little. Niall nods and hands Jack and Alex’s clue to them, Michael’s and Calum’s to them and then-

“Uh,” Niall says, “are you two going to get over your bullshit and admit you want to fuck each other? ‘Cause I kind of need to give this clue to one of you.” Ashton looks up so quickly he’s surprised his neck took the strain, and splutters at Niall.

“What?” he says. “I don’t want to fuck _anyone_.” Niall throws him a look. “Except maybe Billie Joe Armstrong,” Ashton amends. Niall nods, looking satisfied.

“You take it, Mr Denial,” he says, patting Ashton on the arm and thrusting a slip of paper into his hand before waltzing off to- Ashton’s not actually really sure what, but it probably involves food and destroying something.

“So,” Hemmings says, making Ashton start and his eyes flicker from Niall to Hemmings. “We should probably figure this clue out.”

“Right,” Ashton says, pushing down the sarcastic response that’s about to roll off his tongue. “Okay. What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” Hemmings says, sounding mildly amused, “you’re the one holding it.” Fuck.

“Oh,” Ashton says dumbly, holding the slip up. “Right.”

“Food,” he reads to Hemmings because he doesn’t want to hand it to him in case their hands brush. Hemmings stares at him in disbelief.

“This had better not be the dining hall,” he says. “There’s got to be some hidden meaning to it.”

“Kitchen?” Ashton suggests. “What else could it mean? Unless it means Niall’s got the next clue too.” Hemmings snorts.

“We can try the dining hall and the kitchen,” he says. Ashton wrinkles his nose.

“We’re going to look insane,” he says. “What if it’s like, behind the bread bin? We’ll have to disturb all the cooks. Do kitchens here even have bread bins?”

“I don’t know,” Hemmings says. “Worth a shot, though.” Ashton shrugs and nods.

“You know the way?” he asks. Hemmings considers for a moment, and then nods.

“I think I can find it pretty easily,” he says. “Michael gave me a step-by-step rundown of how to get to the kitchen when he was trying to get me to fetch extra food for him.”

“He should be friends with Niall,” Ashton says, as they start making their way out of the door. They’re the first pair to go, surprisingly, with even Calum and Michael still puzzling over their task. Ashton suspects it’s down to this finally being a task of brains over brawn.

“Can you even _begin_ to imagine how much of a nightmare Niall, Michael, Jack and Alex would be together?” Hemmings groans, leading the two of them down a corridor. Ashton pulls a face, because he hadn’t even thought of that.

“God, no,” he groans. “Niall and Jack are bad enough by themselves.”

“Maybe Alex would keep Jack distracted,” Hemmings shrugs, rounding the corner and taking a flight of stairs. He’s walking so fast (probably due to his ridiculously long legs) that Ashton’s pretty much jogging to try and keep up with him.

“I can’t decide what would be worse,” Ashton says, a little breathlessly, “listening to Jack and Alex’s sex noises or having an office of complete and utter mayhem.”

“They’d wreak havoc _whilst_ having sex,” Hemmings says. “It’s one and the same.”

“Great,” Ashton groans. “I’ll have to draw up a new set of office rules. Rule Three Hundred and Forty-Five – no sex in a seven mile radius of Ashton’s office.” Hemmings snorts, pushing a door open and holding it open, and Ashton waits for him to go through before realising that he’s holding it open for Ashton.

“Oh,” Ashton says, stepping through. “Thanks?” The word feels weird on his tongue. He’s not used to being a little more than civil with Hemmings, but he supposes the conversations they’ve had so far when Ashton’s not been seeing red haven’t been uninteresting.

(Then again, maybe that’s what’s making him see red – the fear of falling for Hemmings again.)

He shakes the thoughts away and doesn’t look at Hemmings again until he pushes open the door marked ‘Kitchen’ to their right.

“C’mon,” Hemmings says, even though a cloud of smoke billows out behind him. Ashton’s suddenly glad he didn’t eat lunch with the rest of them, although the clenching and rumbling of his stomach would disagree.

He steps into the kitchen unwillingly anyway, following Hemmings through the smoke and weaving around trolleys piled high with copper pots and pans.

“This is going to take _ages_ to search,” he says, raising his voice slightly for Hemmings to hear. It’s kind of even more worrying that nobody’s paid any attention to two strangers walking into the kitchen yet.

“Not if we know who to talk to it won’t,” Hemmings says, approaching a man wearing an actual chef’s hat (Ashton had thought that was just in the movies. It’s a pretty cool hat, as hats go, but he’s a bandana man himself). He doesn’t bother trying to listen to their conversation because it just sounds like a mumbled foreign language with a few English words thrown in, and all he can hear anyway is people shouting _order for table seven_ and _table four’s order is over there_ and _where are the fucking beans Jeremy I fucking told you not to touch that shit_.

“Ashton!” Hemmings shouts, and Ashton comes to his senses, tearing his eyes away from the cute waiter’s butt and looking at a grinning Hemmings advancing towards him wielding a strip of paper.

“Don’t call me that,” Ashton says, but it’s almost absent-minded. Hemmings isn’t listening anyway, so there’s no point injecting venom into his voice where it’ll just be wasted. “Read it outside. I wanna get out of here.” Hemmings nods and Ashton turns on his heel, heads back outside and leans against the wall, waiting for Hemmings to follow. He feels like he’s just walked out of a sauna, with his hair everywhere and his face flushed.

“So?” Ashton prompts, when Hemmings walks out and just looks at him for a while, searching his face like he’s lost something. It makes Ashton feel vulnerable and exposed, but he can’t exactly cover his face subtly. “What does it say?” Hemmings’ eyes widen, looking like Ashton probably did that time he was fifteen and his mum caught him wanking to gay porn. He quickly averts his gaze down to the slip of paper, and is that a _blush_ Ashton can see?

“Uh,” Hemmings says, eyes scanning the paper. “‘Needed, but disused.’” Ashton frowns.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he asks, and Hemmings shrugs.

“What’s needed but disused?”

“Uh, condoms?” Ashton suggests. Hemmings chokes out a laugh.

“Tell that to Michael’s parents,” he says, and Ashton has to hide a grin because that’s a pretty good one and he doesn’t want to give Hemmings the satisfaction.

“Okay,” Hemmings says, “let’s do this logically. What do we need?”

“Water,” Ashton says immediately. “Food. Sex.” Hemmings rolls his eyes.

“Glad to see someone’s got his priorities straight,” he says drily. “You don’t have anywhere to live, sleep, go to the toilet, but you’ve got someone to fuck. Nice one, Irwin.”

“Hey,” Ashton says, offended, but then he has a thought. “Hey,” he says again, sounding thoughtful this time. “I- uh, there’s some abandoned toilets around here.” Hemmings looks at him hard, but thankfully doesn’t ask him how he knows.

“D’you know the way?” he asks. “It’s all we’ve got. Worth a shot.” Ashton shakes his head.

“I don’t know how to get there,” he admits. “It’s up some stairs and down a really long corridor. I’d recognise it if I saw it, but like- I can’t find it myself.” Hemmings bites his lip, tongue flicking out to catch his lip ring, and Ashton tries hard to stop himself from zeroing in on it.

(It doesn’t work.)

“Right,” Hemmings says. “Shall we just, like, wander around? See if you recognise anything?”

“Might as well,” Ashton says, sighing as he pushes himself off the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Back up those fucking stairs.” Hemmings grins.

“Not an exercise man?” he asks. Ashton shakes his head.

“I think Hood held it in a gym as a joke,” he says darkly, because Calum’s dad has known him since he was just a bad-haired teenager and knows all there is to know about him, including his aversion to exercise.

“How d’you have stamina in bed, then?” Hemmings asks innocently, starting back up the stairs, and Ashton scowls.

“Wouldn’t you just love to know,” he mutters, taking his hands out of his pockets because he thinks he might overbalance if he keeps them in and his jeans are too tight to accommodate both them and his dick anyway. He’d rather expose his stupidly long fingers than his not-stupidly-but-still-pretty long dick.

“Was it this floor?” Hemmings asks, when they reach the top of the stairs. Ashton shakes his head.

“It was up another flight,” he says, and Hemmings shrugs and takes the next flight without even asking Ashton whether he’s fit enough to cope.

“Alright then, you fucking bastard,” Ashton mutters, climbing up the stairs using more his arms on the banister than his legs on the steps. “Don’t bother checking if I’m alright or anything.” Hemmings laughs.

“You climbed _one flight of stairs_ , Irwin,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting _that_ level of unfitness.” Ashton pouts, which is kind of useless because Hemmings can’t see and it means he can’t breathe as easily.

“I’d like to see _you_ try and stay in shape whilst looking after Niall and Jack every fucking day,” he mutters, and Hemmings laughs again, stopping at the top of the stairs. He’s got a different look in his eyes now, kind of hopeful and lively, and Ashton’s got a biting comment at the tip of his tongue ready to decimate that look but manages to summon his conscience and swallow it down.

“It was here,” he says, peering out of the stairwell. “I think, anyway.”

“You said you’d recognise it!” Hemmings says, sounding scandalised.

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not a fucking GPS,” Ashton bitches, and Hemmings grins and shakes his head, scuffing his shoes against the floor.

“Go on, then,” he says. “Your turn to lead the way.”

“Oh,” Ashton says. “Don’t blame me if we get lost.”

“I’m _definitely_ going to be blaming you if we get lost,” Hemmings says. Ashton flips him off without even turning around, peering left and right out of the stairwell to try and see if there’s anything he recognises. The left looks kind of familiar, and Ashton steps out and starts walking down it confidently, just so Hemmings won’t pick on him again.

“You sure this is the way?” Hemmings asks, right next to him, and Ashton hates people with long legs.

“No,” Ashton says irritably. “I’ve told you that already.”

“It’s just,” Hemmings says, “I kinda wanna get home _before_ Christmas, y’know?”

“Oh my God,” Ashton says, exasperated. “You’re a little bitch, you know that?” Hemmings was a lot more fun when he was actually taking Ashton seriously. Ashton’s not really sure how to handle this weird half-joking limbo he’s suddenly found himself in. It feels natural but kind of weird, because they’ve slipped into it so quickly and easily and Ashton doesn’t know how to deal with it. He still means pretty much everything he says, though.

“Yep,” Hemmings says happily. “Hey, is that it?” He points to a door on the right hand side of the corridor, and Ashton nods.

“Looks familiar,” he says, as they approach it. “How the fuck did anyone else find it? Were these clues already put in place or did Niall leave them around?”

“Who knows?” Luke asks, pushing open the door to the toilets and stepping inside gingerly. “This looks like it. Shit, they’re disgusting. How the fuck did you find this place?” Ashton shrugs, not offering any other answer.

“It’d better not be hidden like, in the toilet bowl,” he mutters under his breath, and Hemmings laughs again. Ashton’s starting to get used to the sound, and it’s weird hearing it so many times in succession. He still doesn’t like it, though, still feels a little uncomfortable and uneasy at Hemmings acting as if nothing had happened between them.

“We’re going to have to check every cubicle,” Hemmings points out, and Ashton frowns. He hops up onto the counter with all the sinks on it, and points at the first cubicle.

“Get searching,” he says, and Hemmings pouts at him.

“This is a _team effort_ ,” he says.

“I’m pointing which cubicle you should go in to you,” Ashton says. “That’s my contribution.”

“Irwin,” Hemmings whines, drawing out the second syllable. “You can’t make me look in those alone.”

“Why not?” Ashton says. “They’re probably full of shit. You should feel right at home.” Hemmings scowls and walks over to where Ashton’s sitting, hovering a little bit away from him.

“You’re such a dick sometimes,” he tells Ashton.

“Serves you damn right,” Ashton tells him coolly. Hemmings sighs and wanders closer, closer and closer until he’s right in front of Ashton.

“Why d’you hate me so much?” Hemmings asks, but it’s quiet and more breathy than anything else. It sounds stupid, Ashton thinks. Hemmings is stupid.

“‘Cause you embarrassed me in front of everyone,” Ashton tells him. Hemmings shuffles forwards a little further, thighs making contact with Ashton’s knees. It’s uncomfortable, having Hemmings’ body heat seeping through two layers of denim to his skin, sending weird white-hot _something_ coursing through his veins, so Ashton spreads his legs. He regrets it immediately, because Hemmings shuffles even further forwards so that his thighs are pressing against the counter now, meaning Ashton can’t even close his legs again. He’s looking down at Ashton with some weird look in his eyes that Ashton vaguely recognises but can’t place and it’s making Ashton feel uncomfortable, makes him want to break eye contact except he can’t because otherwise Hemmings’ll have won.

“If it was just that you would have got over it quickly enough,” Hemmings says softly. “God knows Jack’s embarrassed you in front of everyone enough times.”

“He’s not as much of a prick as you, though,” Ashton tells Hemmings, who huffs out a laugh. Ashton can feel Hemmings’ breath on his face, and it’s weird but not altogether as uncomfortable as he might like it to be.

“I think it was something more,” Hemmings says, and Ashton’s heart clenches for some reason.

“Yeah?” Ashton says, managing to keep his voice levelled and sounding more challenging than defensive. “What d’you think it was, then, other than you being the world’s biggest twat?” Hemmings smirks, and it’s so fucking _irritating_. _He’s_ so fucking irritating.

“I think I broke your heart,” he says, so quietly that Ashton wouldn’t have heard it unless he was as close to Hemmings as he unfortunately is.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, but he sounds slightly breathless, like he’s climbed all those fucking stairs again. Hemmings smirks again, clearly hearing it in Ashton’s voice, and Ashton swears under his breath.

“Yeah?” Hemmings says, cocking his head. “You gonna tell me I didn’t break your heart?”

“I haven’t got a heart to break,” Ashton says. Hemmings raises his eyebrows.

“Valid point,” he says. “You’ve broken mine too many times to have one of your own.”

And then somehow, Hemmings is leaning down and Ashton’s caught in the blue of his eyes for just a second, the blue he used to be head-over-heels for but somehow forgot, and then Hemmings’ lips are on his and they’re kissing, they’re fucking _kissing_. Hemmings’ lips are soft against his own, weirdly soft for someone who speaks so harshly, and the metal of his lip ring is cool and unfamiliar against Ashton’s lips. Hemmings tilts his head slightly, bringing his hand up to Ashton’s face and ghosting his fingertips across Ashton’s jaw making him groan a little into the kiss, tilting his own head and kissing Hemmings all sweet and tentative and gentle, _kissing Hemmings_ with his mind trying to catch up to his body.

Kissing Hemmings.

“Shit,” Ashton says, breaking away, heart suddenly pounding everywhere in his fucking body (but blood definitely somewhere else). “Shit, what the fuck? Fuck. _Fuck_.” He touches his lips, still feeling Hemmings’ against his own. He kind of wants to yell at Hemmings, wants to shout so much shit at him because _fuck_ he’s got a lot of shit to shout, but he can’t focus on anything but how Hemmings’ lips felt against his own and a whole hurricane of _what the fuck was that_ and _what the fuck is this_ and _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_.

Hemmings pulls away but doesn’t move, still between Ashton’s legs. Ashton doesn’t move either, just blinks at the cubicle behind Hemmings, because he doesn’t fucking know what to _do_. It’s all so fucking confusing, because he really wants to hit Hemmings for kissing him without asking, for kissing him at _all_ , for making him all confused and taking him by surprise (because Ashton’s pretty sure he’d be fucking _fine_ and not confused or lost if he hadn’t been taken by fucking _surprise_ ), but he knows he won’t be able to concentrate and he’ll probably fall over or fuck up his words and- _fuck_.

“Fuck,” he says again, because it’s the only way to articulate the confusion mixing with emerging anger in his mind. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t get mad until I’ve kissed you again,” Hemmings pleads. “I can’t just have it once, I- fuck, c’mere.” And he leans down and kisses Ashton _again_ , makes this desperate little sound against Ashton’s lips and something clicks, makes Ashton wrap his arms around Hemmings’ neck and his legs around Hemmings’ hips and pull him closer, kiss him harder, less sweet with a dirtier edge to it. He feels fifteen again, kissing his first boy against a wall in an alleyway, getting hard and getting _off_ and being confused and angry about it for days afterwards.

(Calum had been pretty fucking hot at the time, though, and it’d helped him to figure stuff out. Ashton would definitely repeat the experience.)

“Shit,” he says breathlessly, breaking away from Hemmings. “What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?” Hemmings asks, tracing delicate patterns along Ashton’s jaw. Ashton has to stifle a quiet moan.

“I don’t fucking know,” Ashton says helplessly. “I- fuck. I’m going to end up thinking with my dick if you don’t fuck off _right now_. I still hate you.”

“Mhmm,” Hemmings says, leaning back again, but he doesn’t sound convinced and Ashton hates that, hates how he’s let Hemmings fuck him over _again_. Fuck feeling fifteen, he feels twenty again, feels like he’s just been told _oh, you didn’t actually think I wanted you, did you? Not you, never you, Ash. sorry, babe_ all over again.

“I’m not doing this,” Ashton says, frustration and anger finally overlapping confusion. “I fucking hate you. I- fuck, you fucking bastard. You _knew_ how I felt about you at the time, I _know_ you did, and you fucking threw it in my face. You know how much that hurt? ‘Course you don’t, that was a stupid question, you’re Luke fucking Hemmings. Nobody ever hurts you, do they, ‘cause you don’t give anyone the fucking _chance_. You hurt them all before they can hurt you. I’m not letting you do this all over again.” Hemmings doesn’t say anything at Ashton’s little outburst, which frustrates Ashton even further, just blinks at him.

“I wasn’t fucking James,” he blurts eventually. “I dropped out of uni.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ashton says, because he’s fucking _done_ with Hemmings and all his stupid _bullshit_ and all the shit he’s caused and- fuck, he fucking hates that kid and his stupid eyes and lip ring and smile and legs.

“I wasn’t,” Hemmings says, and Ashton rolls his eyes. “No, will you fucking listen?”

“Earn the right to be listened to and I will,” Ashton shoots back, and Hemmings growls, full on _growls_ at him.

“Shut up for _one fucking moment,_ Ashton, oh my God,” he says. “I wasn’t fucking James. James had a girlfriend. Michael, fucking idiot, he told me to make you jealous and- I don’t know what I was thinking, ‘cause he clearly meant like, flirt with other people, not full on tell you that shit especially when you _asked me out_ but I panicked, and it was all I could think of saying. And then I went back to uni but I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand knowing that I’d left all this shit in the state it was- is in and it was affecting my concentration and my work, so I dropped out instead of failing. Hood offered me the job immediately, said he’d keep my dropping out of uni on the down low and I could just tell people I had a course that finished early, and I started working there. And it was all because I couldn’t fucking stand knowing I’d fucked things up between us. I dropped out of fucking _university_ for you.”

“Don’t chat shit,” Ashton snaps. “As if some sob story’s going to make me like you.” Hemmings groans in frustration.

“Why don’t you _believe_ me?” he asks. “D’you want me to phone Michael and get him to back me up? Or James, maybe?”

“How about a therapist to sort out those fucking hallucination issues you’re having right now?” Ashton says hotly.

“Fuck this,” Hemmings says fiercely. “Fuck this. Fuck _you_ , Ashton Fletcher Irwin. Fuck you so hard.” And he pulls back, nearly pulling Ashton (who’s still got his legs around Hemmings’ hips) with him, and walks out, fists clenched. Ashton watches him go bitterly, waits for at least a minute after he can’t hear anything anymore before he screams in frustration.

If he’d hated Hemmings before, it’s nothing compared to now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to try and update this more than twice a month but it takes so long to write because i get so distracted this is awful i've been writing this chapter since liek 4pm it's now 9pm and it makes no sense and it's really weird i have no idea i'm sorry

Ashton doesn’t go back to the gym.

He doesn’t think he can face Hemmings again, not after whatever had happened back there, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle Jack’s constant teasing either. He needs to be alone, needs to sort his thoughts out, or needs to vent them to Calum and have him piece them together for him.

He walks past the receptionists and gives them a tight-lipped smile, pushing his way out of the glass doors and into the outside world as fast as he can whilst still looking vaguely inconspicuous.

It’s cool and refreshing outside, and Ashton tilts his face into the breeze and lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, savouring the feeling of the heat prickling at his skin dissipating. Someone pushes past him and makes him stumble a little to the left and open his eyes in surprise, muttering a quick ‘sorry, mate’ before jogging down the path away from him. Ashton shakes himself out of his relief and follows the man’s path, revelling in the feeling of the sun shining warm on his skin, cocooning him in a soft glow. It’s already starting to die down, that horrible feeling in his stomach and head and heart, the thoughts spinning out of his mind rather than out of control. He always needs to go outside when he feels like this, get out of any building, because being in the open air with no constraints around him makes his mind feel more open and free and lets him sort things out.

Ashton had actually been thinking about going home, but decides he’s in no fit state to do so right now and so turns off the path onto a patch of the green lawn that surrounds the whole building, deciding to head for a bench he can see in the distance. His phone starts vibrating before he can get there, though, and he pulls it out with the intention of turning it off in frustration before realising it’s Calum’s name flashing on the screen.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Where are you?” Calum asks immediately. “Are you okay? Luke just found me and Michael and pulled Michael away.”

“I’m outside,” Ashton says. “We had a fight.”

“Again?” Calum says, and Ashton can hear the sound of footsteps, meaning he’s on his way. “C’mon, Ash. You were meant to try and be civil today.” Ashton can’t help but laugh humourlessly.

“Is kissing him civil enough?” he asks, and Calum inhales sharply.

“You kissed him?”

“He kissed me,” Ashton corrects. “Twice.”

“Did you kiss him back?”

“Yeah.” Ashton hates the feeling that threatens to erupt in his chest, shoving it down before he can even figure out whether it’s anger, fear or excitement. “Can you- can you just come outside, please? I don’t want to talk about this on the phone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Calum says, “I’ll be down in a second.”

“Okay.” Calum hangs up without another word, and Ashton sits down on the bench, crossing his legs on the cool metal. It’s a pretty view here, actually, like the setting of some awful rom-com that he’d groan about watching but secretly enjoy. He wonders if Hemmings likes rom-coms. Probably. He’s an awful guy, and it’s an awful genre.

It takes a few minutes for Calum’s figure to appear in the distance but he spots Ashton almost immediately and jogs over, starting to speak before he’s even really within speaking distance.

“You _kissed_ Luke?”

“Mhm.”

“How the fuck did that come about?” Calum asks slightly breathlessly, sitting down next to him. “I thought you were going strong with your Anti-Luke policies.”

“So did I,” Ashton says. “But then he kissed me and it was- it was weird? I don’t know. And then he kissed me again, and I kissed him back, and- yeah.” He doesn’t want to elaborate, really.

“Did you like it?” Ashton shrugs nonchalantly.

“No,” he says, avoiding Calum’s gaze.

“Okay,” Calum says, although he clearly doesn’t believe Ashton. “Did he like it?”

“Yeah.” Calum doesn’t say anything for a moment, just exhales and stares out at the trees opposite them.

“I thought this might happen,” he says eventually, and Ashton huffs out a laugh.

“‘Course you did,” he says, because Calum foresees everything. “Baba Vanga, and all that.”

“Shut up, dickhead,” Calum says, nudging Ashton’s arm with his own. “I meant, like. You clearly weren’t over Luke. And Luke- I always thought Luke liked you.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “He chatted some shit about never fucking James, dropping out of uni, I don’t really know – some bullshit to try and get me to get him off, I think.”

“He never fucked James?” Calum asks. Ashton shrugs.

“Apparently James was straight,” he says. “Not that I’m going to believe anything that arsehole says.” Calum hums, shuffles up a bit so his arm is touching Ashton’s, just as a reminder that he’s there.

“You’re not going to fall for him again, are you?” Calum asks, and Ashton swallows.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t think he will. Hopefully, he won’t. He knows enough about Hemmings, has enough of a history with Hemmings for it to be likely that he won’t. But there’s that little glimmer of _what if_ that’s always been in his mind, planted right in the back in a tightly packed box that Ashton vowed never to open ever again, that’s suddenly fluttering around in places like his heart where it doesn’t belong. And he kind of wants to kiss Hemmings again. At the same time, though, he still _hates_ Hemmings, perhaps even more so now that he’s fucked around with Ashton a second time.

God, it’s all so _confusing_. Ashton wishes it could just stop, that they could stop dancing around each other trying to step on each other’s toes.

“I hope not,” Ashton says eventually, because it’s the best way of voicing _I hate him, I’m praying I don’t, I don’t think I will, but the fact I have to pray is worrying enough._

“You could be good together,” Calum says, and Ashton snorts.

“Yeah,” he says, “good at destroying each other.”

“Not necessarily,” Calum says. “Not if that’s not what you want to do.”

“What’s that meant to mean?” Ashton asks, and Calum shrugs.

“If you want to be with him, you could be good with him,” he says.

“I don’t want to be with him,” Ashton says.

“But you want to kiss him again, right?” Ashton scowls.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he argues. “I’ve wanted to kiss you before.”

“Go home, Ash,” Calum says, and he sounds almost tired. “Sleep on it.”

“Fine,” Ashton says. “But I’m not talking to him ever again. You can tell your dad Marketing and Sales are staying well apart.”

(Calum’s parting exasperated sigh wasn’t exactly unexpected.)

-

Ashton distracts himself for the rest of the evening by watching the most confusing movies he can think of and tying up loose ends of work he couldn’t be bothered to do over the past week. It works, keeping Hemmings out of his mind, but it can’t keep the feeling of his lips off of Ashton’s own. Ashton nearly bites his lips raw trying to rid himself of the sensation, but he can’t get it away and ends up getting so frustrated he takes a sleeping pill and forces himself to sleep.

He wakes up late the next morning but he knows Calum’ll understand when he finally drags himself into the office. He’s proved correct when he finds a cup of coffee sitting, still steaming, at his desk.

“Morning,” a voice says, and Ashton’s about to thank Calum for the coffee before he realises it’s Niall, not Calum.

“Oh,” Ashton says, sounding more than a little disgruntled. “It’s you.”

“Yep,” Niall says, but he doesn’t say it in the chirpy, cheery way he usually would. “Can I come in?”

“Make yourself at home,” Ashton says, dumping his briefcase to the right of his chair and sitting down, taking a sip of the delicious coffee.

“Where did you go yesterday?” Niall asks, and Ashton just about manages to swallow without spluttering.

“Home,” he says, figuring it’s best to be honest.

“Was it to do with Luke?” Niall asks.

“Is it any of your business?” Ashton asks, more than a little hostile. Niall shrugs.

“I know I’m not the person you’d go to for anything of the sort, but I have some advice for you,” he says. Ashton raises his eyebrows, sipping from his coffee again (mainly for effect).

“Yeah?” he asks, because Niall _really_ isn’t the person he’d go to for advice. His advice usually consists of ‘fuck it’, in both senses of the phrase.

“It’s not really advice as such, actually,” Niall says, reconsidering. “It’s more, like, just some tips. Pointers. Information.”

“Did they even teach you English back in Ireland?” Ashton asks, and Niall scowls.

“You should give Luke a chance,” he says, and Ashton rolls his eyes.

“Did Calum put you up to this?” he asks, because there’s no _way_ Niall would say that otherwise. He’s not tactile enough to notice anything between the Ashton and Hemmings other than Ashton’s permanent hatred of him. “He’s such a pussy.”

“No,” Niall says, and it’s slightly indignant. “I’m capable of forming an opinion on my own, y’know.”

“Sorry,” Ashton says, feeling a little sheepish. “I know that.”

“I just think that, like- the way he was acting? Staring at you constantly? He likes you, I think,” Niall says earnestly.

“I don’t think so, Ni,” Ashton says, busying himself with shuffling papers around randomly on his desk so he won’t have to look Niall in the eye.

“Why not?” Niall asks with a frown. Ashton sighs, because it’s probably going to come out anyway and he’d rather Niall heard it from him than from someone else.

“We kissed,” he says nonchalantly, making out like it’s nothing big.

“You _kissed_?” Niall says, voice suddenly three thousand decibels louder than before. Ashton winces.

“Yeah,” he says. “We kissed. And then argued. And then I went home.” He can feel Niall gaping at him and it’s making him uncomfortable, and he’s about to tell Niall to go and do some actual work when he speaks again.

“Makes sense,” Niall says, but it sounds more like he was saying it to himself than to Ashton. Ashton snaps his head up, narrows his eyes at Niall. What’s that meant to mean?

“What’s that meant to mean?” he asks. Niall blinks back at him.

“Nothing,” he says. “I’m going out with Jack to buy more fairy lights later.” And that’s it, that’s serious Niall gone for at least the next six months.

“You’re not buying more fairy lights, Niall,” Ashton says firmly, powering up his laptop. “We don’t need more.”

“We do,” Niall disagrees. “You can never have too many fairy lights.”

“You can when the department budget should be spent on other things,” Ashton says. “How about a new photocopier?”

“When do we ever photocopy anything?” Niall says dismissively.

“You photocopied your phone when you couldn’t figure out how to screenshot,” Ashton points out. Niall scowls.

“That was _one time_ ,” he says. “Let it go. I’m a changed man.”

“Right,” Ashton says, snorting slightly derisively. “Go on, fuck off. Send Calum in if you bump into him. That doesn’t mean you can physically bump into him and say I ordered you to, by the way,” he adds, catching the way Niall’s face falls just before he skips out of the door.

Hemmings or no Hemmings, it’s going to be a long day.

-

Ashton’s worked hard all morning, immersed himself in the most complicated work he knows he has in order to keep himself distracted and focused. It means he’s exhausted come lunchtime, though, and Calum takes one look at him and orders him to get out for lunch, leave the building and go and eat in the nearby Costa. Ashton nods, fumbling in his pocket to check he’s got some change before making his way out of the building. He bumps into Pete Wentz whilst he’s waiting for the lift to take him down to the ground floor, and groans because he can tell that word’s managed to get around already from the mischievous look in Pete’s eyes.

“Is it true?” Pete asks excitedly, leaning against the frame of the lift as Ashton presses the button in rapid-fire succession, praying for it to come up faster so this will end.

“Is what true?” Ashton asks, stalling for time.

“You kissed Luke Hemmings?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“So it _is_ true?” Pete says.

“I never said it was.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t, either,” Pete says, grinning. “I can’t believe you kissed Luke Hemmings.”

“For the record, he kissed _me_. Twice.”

“So you did kiss him!” Pete crows, just as the lift doors ping open, revealing a rather harassed looking Gerard Way.

“This looks like a conversation I want no part in,” Gerard mutters, shouldering past both of them.

“Hey,” Pete shouts after him, “where are you going? There’s only Marketing on this floor.”

“I’m taking the stairs, Wentz,” Gerard shouts back. “I’m not getting in a metal container with you.” Pete huffs, but doesn’t seem all too offended, stabbing the button for the ground floor and humming contentedly.

“Did you have angry hate-sex?” Pete asks when the doors slide shut, and Ashton splutters.

“No!” he says, although he’d come damn close to wanting it. “That’s disgusting, Pete.” Pete shrugs.

“I don’t believe you just kissed,” he says. “It wasn’t chaste, by any means.”

“You don’t know that,” Ashton says, but he can feel his face starting to burn.

“I do now,” Pete says, grinning and nodding at Ashton’s flushed face. “Was there tongue involved?”

“Is it any of your business?” Ashton asks indignantly as the lift pings for the ground floor and they both step out.

“I need to know for my fanfic,” Pete says.

“I don’t know what that is,” Ashton says, “and I don’t want to know. Piss off, Wentz. I’m going for lunch.”

“I’ll find you later!” Pete shouts as he walks down the corridor and Ashton walks out of the building. He won’t; Ashton’ll put Calum on guard.

He jogs down the steps and around the corner, slipping into the Costa and making a face when he realises how hot it is inside. There goes his idea of having a cappuccino in a cool environment.

He picks out a ham and cheese toastie (as usual) and some salted crisps and queues up to pay, eyeing the chocolate-covered treats they have on display in a huge class case and wondering whether he should go for one or whether it’ll melt. He decides to resist the temptation and buys just the toastie, some water and the crisps, and hops up onto a stool, pulling out his phone as he waits for his toastie to come.

He’s got three new texts; two from Jack, unsurprisingly, and one from an unknown number. He opens Jack’s first, just to get them out of the way.

 **_Jack Barakat_ ** _  
Heyyyyyyyyyy how much is too much to spend on fairy lights?_

 **_Jack Barakat_ ** _  
Never mind!_

Ashton texts him back quickly; _3p_ followed by a grand number of angry emojis. Then he opens the other number, scanning the words and frowning.

_Hi, it’s Michael (Clifford). Can we meet up?_

**_Me_ ** _  
What for?_

Ashton saves the number and already has a reply by the time he clicks back onto his messaging app.

 **_Michael Clifford_ ** _  
To talk about Luke_

 **_Me_ ** _  
In that case, no._

The barista brings his toastie over whilst he’s typing and he thanks her absent-mindedly, wondering what the hell Michael wants to discuss about Hemmings. Probably the kiss, actually, but what’s Ashton going to be able to tell him that Hemmings already hasn’t? How it felt from his end? Is he going to report it back to Pete Wentz for him to write in his fanflick, or whatever?

 **_Michael Clifford_ ** _  
Don’t be an arsehole yet again Irwin I’ve got enough of that on my plate with Luke_

Ashton clenches his teeth, swallowing his bite of toastie particularly hard.

 **_Me_ ** _  
I’M the arsehole in this situation? I wasn’t the one who fucked with someone and then kissed them twice._

 **_Michael Clifford_ ** _  
You’re BOTH arseholes, which is what I’m trying to convey_

 **_Me_ ** _  
Thanks for the offer, but no thanks._

 **_Michael Clifford_ ** _  
I know it meant more than either of you are saying_

 **_Michael Clifford_ ** _  
God you two are frustrating how does Calum deal with you and your emo self on a daily basis_

 **_Me_ ** _  
Why text me if you’re just going to be a fucking prick?_

 **_Michael Clifford_ ** _  
Because you need to get the fuck over yourself_

Ashton’s had enough at this point. He pockets his phone, leaves his toastie half-eaten and walks out of Costa, taking nothing but his crisps with him and making his way back to the office.

He’s going to have to have a word with Calum about his choice of crush. If Calum ever admits to liking dick, that is.

-

Ashton spends his weekend ignoring his texts (most of which are from Michael Clifford), finishing the last little bits of his work and watching shitty movies. He’s done more work in the past few days than he has in the past few years put together, and Hood emails him a small congratulation. Ashton can tell he’s disappointed with the way the team building day was handled, and hopes Calum hasn’t told him the reason it went as shit as it did.

The one productive thing Ashton’s actually done over the weekend, other than finish work he should have finished weeks ago, is to think over his kiss with Hemmings. He’d thought over it, thought over it again, and thought through it one more time before concluding that yes, he’d actually really, really, _really_ like to kiss Hemmings again. And it’s kind of terrifying him.

Come Monday, Ashton’s still kind of moping. He’d refused to get himself off at the weekend, purely out of fear that Hemmings would somehow come into his mind, and he’s been frustrated and snappy because of it since. Even Calum raises his eyebrows when Ashton slopes into the office and snaps at Niall for being annoying before he’s even done anything, and follows Ashton into his office.

“Bad weekend?” he asks.

“Fuck off,” Ashton mumbles, slumping in his chair. “Go do some work, or control the kids, or something.” Calum ignores all that, takes a seat in front of Ashton’s desk and throws his feet up on the table casually.

“I’m alright here, actually,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Ashton says moodily, stabbing the power button on his laptop. “Go away.”

“God, Ashton,” Calum says. “You need to loosen the fuck up.”

“Tell your fucking _boyfriend_ to loosen the fuck up,” Ashton mutters under his breath, except it’s not as under his breath as he would have liked because Calum stiffens.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Ashton says. “I’m going to do work now, so you can leave me alone.”

“Michael Clifford is _not_ my boyfriend,” Calum says. “I’m _straight_.”

“Which is why you let me grind against you in an alleyway when we were fifteen and blow you all the way up ‘til we were in our late teens, right, yeah,” Ashton says irritably. “Go _away_ , Cal, I’m serious.”

“What the fuck crawled up your arse?” Calum asks. “You’re in such a bitchy mood this morning, Christ.”

“Your fucking not-boyfriend texting me incessantly over the weekend,” Ashton snaps, reaching over and shoving Calum’s feet off the desk. “Tell him to fuck off, and take the same advice yourself.”

“What’s he texting you about?” Calum asks, sounding slightly fearful.

“Not you, you self-obsessed bastard,” Ashton mutters. “Hemmings.”

“Oh?” Calum asks, interested. “What does he want?”

“To be a prick, I don’t fucking know,” Ashton says, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “I just know I don’t want to hear any of it.”

“Maybe Luke’s said something to him?” Calum suggests.

“Does it look like I care what Hemmings says to anyone?” Ashton asks, clenching his fists.

“You might if it’s about you.”

“Well, I don’t. And if you don’t leave my office right now I’ll resign and join HR instead.” Calum snorts.

“As if you could put up with Pete Wentz for that long,” he says. “As if anyone could.”

“Patrick manages,” Ashton says.

“You can’t even handle _Luke Hemmings_ , who’s one of the nicest people this company has to offer,” Calum says.

“Right, that’s it,” Ashton says, standing up and walking around his desk. “This office is a strictly Orgasm-Over-Hemmings free zone. You can go and cream yourself over him somewhere else.” He tugs at Calum’s arm, willing him to get to his feet, but Calum’s quite stubborn when he wants to be and manages to stay put, despite the fact that Ashton’s stronger than him.

“What’s up, Ash?” he asks quietly, when Ashton gives up pulling on his arm but doesn’t move, and Ashton sighs.

“I don’t know,” he says tiredly. “I really don’t know.” Calum holds his arms out and Ashton falls into him gratefully, curling up on his lap and tucking his face into Calum’s neck.

“D’you wanna kiss him again?” Calum mumbles, and Ashton nods, glad Calum can’t see his blush. “Why don’t you?”

“‘Cause I don’t want to give him the satisfaction,” Ashton says. “Don’t like him. I just like kissing him.”

“C’mon, Ashton, no one’s _that_ good at kissing,” Calum says. “Not so much so that you’d think about kissing them for like, four days.”

“Maybe Hemmings is,” Ashton says. “You’ve never kissed him; how would you know?”

“Michael said,” Calum says.

“Michael’s kissed Hemmings?”

“‘Course he has,” Calum says. “I’ve kissed you, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Ashton says. “Hemmings used to have a crush on Michael.” It takes Calum a moment longer to answer this time.

“How do you know?” he says eventually.

“He told me,” Ashton says.

“But he doesn’t anymore?”

“Apparently not,” Ashton says. “Why, are you jealous?”

“No,” Calum says. “I’m not into dick.”

“Okay,” Ashton says, smirking a little against Calum’s neck, and they lapse into silence.

“You should talk to him,” Calum says after a while.

“Who, Michael? I don’t think so.”

“No, Luke, you idiot,” Calum says. “He might want to kiss you again too – who knows?” Ashton scowls and opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by the sound of the dodgy floorboard a few feet from the door creaking and groans instead.

“Fuck off, Jack,” he mumbles.

“It’s not Jack,” the person says, and Ashton sits upright so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. It’s Hemmings.

“What do you want?” he spits. Calum’s grip on Ashton tightens, almost as if he’s saying _slow down, don’t do anything you’ll regret later._ Ashton’s not a big believer in regrets, other than Hemmings’ entire existence to everyone around him.

“To talk,” Hemmings says, “but it looks like you’re busy.”

“No, no, I was just leaving,” Calum says, tipping Ashton off his lap and making him stumble for a second before he finds his feet. “Make yourself at home.” He walks off before Ashton has the chance to yell at him to come back and shuts the door behind him, leaving Ashton alone in the room with Hemmings.

“The only thing I have to talk to you about is getting Michael Clifford to leave me the fuck alone,” Ashton says, when the silence and Hemmings looking at him in a half-bemused, half-wonderous manner becomes too uncomfortable. “So if you want to talk about anything else, you can get out right now.”

“Apparently not,” Hemmings says. “What was Calum saying?” Oh, _shit_.

“A bunch of shit, probably,” Ashton breezes, “wasn’t listening.”

“He said I might want to kiss you again too.”

“And if you do want to kiss me, you can reconsider that,” Ashton retorts.

“But he said too. That means you want to kiss me again as well.”

“Nope,” Ashton says. “You must have misheard.” Hemmings takes another step forwards, so Ashton takes another step back, and Hemmings takes another step forwards until Ashton’s back hits the edge of his desk and he can’t back away any further. Hemmings keeps advancing, though, until he’s standing right in front of Ashton and all Ashton can think of is when Hemmings kissed him before, how he really wants to kiss him again.

“Really?” Hemmings asks, leaning down until their lips are almost touching, waiting for Ashton to pull away. Ashton’s waiting for _himself_ to pull away, but he just can’t bring himself to move. “I call that bullshit, Irwin.”

“You call it whatever you like, except a lie,” Ashton says, but it’s breathy and God, he sounds like Bella Swan. This is not where he envisioned his life going.

“What are you going to do if I do?” Hemmings asks, and he’s smirking, the fucking bastard. Ashton wants to kiss the smirk off his lips, wishes Hemmings would stop this stupid little game and just _kiss him_ already.

“Why don’t you try it and see?” Ashton says, and it’s the boldest thing he’s said so far and could be taken in two very different ways. He hopes the way he intoned it sounds more aggressive and threatening than pleading and desperate, but the way Hemmings grins and presses his lips against Ashton’s says otherwise.

Ashton groans immediately, bringing his hands up to Hemmings’ waist immediately because _fuck_ , it feels so good, so damn good, and he swears kisses never tasted this good before. Hemmings’ lips are moving slowly against his, sweet, gentle, careful, and Ashton kind of wants it to last forever and kind of wants Hemmings to hurry up and get to the good stuff. He tilts his head, allowing Hemmings to get better access from a less awkward position and hops up onto the desk, letting Hemmings move forwards to get between his legs again. It’s a good position to be in, Ashton thinks dazedly, as he lets Hemmings kiss him a little bit harder, a little less chaste. It’s nice.

Ashton moves one hand from where it’s rested on Hemmings’ waist to his neck, and as soon as his hands graze the skin Hemmings moans into the kiss, presses harder against Ashton and Christ, that’s really got to him. Ashton trails his fingers down from Hemmings’ jaw to his collarbone and elicits the same desperate sound from Hemmings and decides he likes it, decides he wants to hear it more.

Hemmings doesn’t humour him, though, breaking the kiss and staring at Ashton with parted lips and something Ashton doesn’t quite recognise in his eyes.

“What?” Ashton asks. Hemmings shakes his head.

“Told you I called bullshit,” he says, and then he kisses any retort Ashton has away, making Ashton whine, half because it feels fucking _good_ and half because now it seems like Hemmings has won the argument.


End file.
